


Year 0: Fate Interrupted

by erudipitous, Wanderbird



Series: A Pawn Off The Board [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Gen, Guardian Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Pre-Hogwarts, and they were godfathers, but i'd be lying to say we weren't influenced by the tv series, harry gets the good parental figures he deserves, mostly based on book!aziraphale and crowley, we see A+C as queerplatonic partners but you can read them however you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erudipitous/pseuds/erudipitous, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderbird/pseuds/Wanderbird
Summary: To be honest, Harry wasn't even expecting the bookshop to be open this early in the morning. But here he was. And there was Mr. Fell, and Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were looking for him, and what else was he supposed to do? He tried the door.The next thing Harry knew, he had two new godfathers.And so his fate was changed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A Pawn Off The Board [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685818
Comments: 207
Kudos: 798





	1. In Which Aziraphale Unknowingly Gives Fate a Good Kick in the Willie

Aziraphale looked up from his book with a scowl as the bookshop door creaked open, bells jingling. His expression softened considerably, however, as he took note of the intruder's short stature, messy black hair, inexpertly repaired spectacles, and green eyes. He always had a soft spot for children.

"Hullo, Mister Fell," the boy said quietly. "Mind if I come in for a bit? I know you're not usually open at this time of day, but the door was unlocked and it looked like you were in here so I figured I'd give it a shot."

Aziraphale smiled. "My door is never locked for those in need, Harry." If only the boy knew how literal that statement was! "Come on in."   
"Thanks, Mister Fell." The boy scurried in, and Aziraphale flicked the sign to OPEN with a thought.   
"Would you like a cup of cocoa? I was about to make one for myself," he offered.   
"I wouldn't want to be any trouble, Mister Fell," Harry said nervously.

"Oh, it's no trouble, no trouble at all," he soothed. The poor boy was so young, but already too scared to take up space, he reflected, bustling about with the kettle. He had been coming here since he could scarcely read, drawn to Aziraphale's shop by the subtle magic that made all lost children feel welcomed.

The first time he'd come, the boy, barely six years old, had dashed in through the Wraysbury door to hide behind a shelf. Aziraphale, thinking the child was playing some reckless game, had been about to object when a much larger and clearly malicious boy had marched in looking for him. Aziraphale had icily told the bully off, then offered the smaller one a cup of cocoa. Since then, he'd been gradually coaxing little Harry out of his shell. He was quite the regular at this point, slipping away to the bookshop when he needed peace and quiet and a friendly ear.   
If only Aziraphale could convince the poor scrap that he really did mean it when he said he was welcome anytime, or to report his treatment to the due authorities, or  _ something— _ but then, so few of his regulars ever believed him. It was, frankly, depressing. But if all the children under his protection would accept was the occasional cocoa and a listening ear, then that was exactly what they would get, as often as they would let him. 

"Is there something going on?" Aziraphale asked gently, handing Harry the cocoa. "You don't usually come in at this hour. Aren't you supposed to be at school?"   
The boy shrank in on himself. "Sorry to bother you."   
"It's quite alright, dear boy, I appreciate the company," he reassured him. "I was simply inquiring after your wellbeing."

"Oh."    
He looked like he wanted to cry, the poor child, but he held it back bravely, biting his lip. "It's just, it's Dudley's birthday and he wants to play with me, which usually means chasing me around the yard to beat me up, and Aunt Petunia says I have to play with him on his birthday."   
Aziraphale felt sick. 

"My dear Harry, you can stay here as long as you want. That boy should never be allowed to treat you so horribly— or your aunt and uncle, for that matter."   
The boy gave him a shy little smile. "Thanks, Mister Fell."

Aziraphale returned the expression warmly. "Now, I intend to get back to my reading, but you are welcome to stay as long as you want. I just refilled the biscuit tin, too— help yourself to those, and if you need anything, then please ask."

These sorts of occurrences were not uncommon at A. Z. Fell & Co. They never had been, really, only now they were much more overt. After a certain Antichrist had filled entire shelves of his shop with boys' adventure novels and the like, Aziraphale had intended to get rid of them, but had never quite gotten around to it. And now, free from Heaven's oversight, he actually found himself leaning into his caretaker instincts. His door was never locked for children who needed a safe haven, his biscuit tin never ran out, and he always had a few minutes to spare.   
He settled back down with his book, smiling as Harry grabbed a few biscuits with that little coo of delight. No sooner had Aziraphale turned the page when the shop bell tinkled again. 

He looked up to see two of the most unpleasant-looking people he had ever laid eyes upon.

They certainly weren't the sort of people Aziraphale ever would have expected in his shop. The woman in front reminded him of a shriveled meerkat, between her thin neck, sharp cheekbones, and overpoweringly be-make up-ed eyes. She wasn't  _ ugly _ ; she simply radiated something so petty and resentful and drenched in commonplace evils that it  _ itched  _ to look at her. Her companion was even worse. With a large pink face, not much neck, thick blond hair and small eyes that watered at the slightest breeze, the man practically  _ oozed  _ constipated rage from his very pores.

"Harry! So this is where you've been hiding," the man barked. 

Harry froze, eyes wide, shrunken halfway in on himself. "Uncle Vernon," he whispered.  _ Oh, dear. _

"Dudley said he saw you run in here," the woman said smugly, wringing her hands. "Now look here, Harry." She cast a self-conscious glance up and around before continuing, not even seeming to notice Aziraphale in his chair. "You know our little Duddikins wants his playmate. It's his birthday, don't you want him to have a good time?"

Aziraphale, still sitting at his desk, coughed politely, inserting himself into the conversation in much the same way an iceberg had once inserted itself into a very well-known boat. "Excuse me, madam. I would appreciate it if you did not harass my customers."

The woman jumped, then glared. "He's my  _ nephew _ ," she spat. "I'll treat him how I want."

Aziraphale set aside his book and stood up, righteous anger and disgust blooming in his chest. "Young Harry here is an honored guest, and a personal friend of mine. You, however, are  _ shockingly  _ rude. You are not welcome in my shop."   
Harry shrank even further. The man marched up to Aziraphale's desk, face turning red. "What did you just say?" the man demanded, leaning over the desk.

Aziraphale raised his chin calmly. "I said, you are not welcome in my shop."

The man reached over and grabbed his collar. "You will not tell me how to treat my own nephew," he growled. The angel raised an eyebrow, and he yelped as though burned, stepping back with a start. "What the —"

Harry’s jaw dropped as the little inoffensive bookkeeper stared down his uncle. The lighting in the shop was as odd and dim as ever, but he could have sworn he saw the shadows of wings behind Mr. Fell. Was he  _ glowing _ ? Or was it just a trick of the light, something slipping through the windows?    
But then Petunia went to grab Harry, and he whimpered. The moment she touched him, Mr. Fell snapped his fingers, and his aunt slid a few feet away.

The woman's face turned white, then red. "You're one of  _ them _ ," she spat, stalking towards the bookseller instead. "I should have known."

Aziraphale lifted an eyebrow. "One of what?"   
"Those freaks. Just like his parents!" She shooed her husband away from the desk, leaning over it herself with a contemptuous sneer.

"His parents?" The question was mild.

" _ Wizards,"  _ she hissed in his ear, then leaned back, a triumphant gleam in her eye. "We should never have taken him in," she continued at a normal volume. "I knew he would be trouble. We should have left him on that doorstep, shoveled him off to foster care without a second thought."

_Wizards?_   
The angel turned to look at Harry, and this time, he really Looked. Sure enough, the signs were there; the boy would make a fine wizard someday! There was something about his forehead, too, that seemed a bit odd — but he didn't have time to Look into it more deeply, and he dismissed it as a trick of the light.  
_You can't just adopt every abused child who needs a home_ , Crowley had told him, one terrible night. There was only so much he could do, that they were allowed, even now that they no longer worked for Head Office. But a wizard… Eventually his powers would start to manifest, and in that awful household, it would surely cause more chaos than could be allowed.

The shop bell tinkled yet again.

Crowley halted in his tracks, taking in the scene.

Aziraphale was clearly in guardian angel mode, looming over a most unpleasant pair of humans whose hate and fear let off a stink he could feel even from the doorway. In the corner of the shop, in the kids' book section, cowered a little boy with messy black hair and glasses.    
Crowley’s nose twitched, forked tongue flicking out and back in . That kid smelled familiar.    
_ "Don't I know you?" _ he asked the boy, who widened his eyes and shook his head.

"Did you just  _ hiss  _ at him?" the woman said, astonished.   
Crowley furrowed his brow, then widened his eyes as the realization hit him. "Oh, that's it!" he exclaimed in English, then switched back to the tongue of snakes.  _ "You're the kid I talked to as a snake a few years back! Where'd you learn to speak snake, anyways?" _

_ "What? _ " the kid hissed, utterly confused.   
_ "I said, where'd you learn to speak snake? You're really good, don't even have an accent!" _

"Crowley, stop hissing! You're scaring the boy, he doesn't know what you're talking about," Aziraphale admonished.   
"Yeah he does, he understands me perfectly!"

Aziraphale blinked.

"Now look here, you bloody  _ freaks _ —" the man began.    
Aziraphale snapped his fingers impatiently, and the Dursleys disappeared.   
He sighed and sat back down at his desk. "That's better," he said. "Now, what was that you were saying?"   
"I said, he understands me perfectly!" Crowley repeated. He turned to the boy, and said something in Parseltongue. Aziraphale concentrated, translating the series of hisses:  _ See? You understand what I'm saying. _

The boy looked utterly flabbergasted. To be fair, his aunt and uncle had just disappeared into thin air. Perhaps Aziraphale should have gotten them to leave some other, more human-seeming way, but— well, he was out of patience.    
_ Um, yes? Aren't you speaking English? _

Crowley opened his mouth, then closed it. He snapped his fingers, and time froze for a moment. "Right. Um, I'm not crazy, Aziraphale, am I? You heard him?"   
"I did, dear. I think we have a bit of a mess on our hands," The angel gave Harry a sympathetic glance. "But let's not confuse the poor boy even more, dear, I think that's a conversation to have later."   
"Confuse the boy?! Did you not just vanish his  _ parents _ ?"   
Aziraphale fidgeted. "Well, yes. His aunt and uncle, technically. You should have seen them, Crowley, they were terrible! Besides, all I did was teleport them back to their house."

Crowley leaned on a bookshelf, frowning. "We can't get involved."

The angel looked away. "We could," he said quietly.

Crowley crossed his arms, expression unreadable behind his glasses. "We can't adopt every stray child who comes along, Aziraphale!" As if Crowley hadn't taken care of plenty of children in his time, without even telling his angel.   
"He's a wizard." Aziraphale lifted his chin, meeting his eyes. "Or at least, he will be."   
Crowley turned to Look at Harry, clearly noticing the same magical aura that Aziraphale had detected. "So?"   
"He's a wizard, his parents were wizards, and they died when he was a baby," Aziraphale said. "He showed up on his aunt and uncle's doorstep. Eventually his magic is going to start acting out, and that house is so full of bitterness that something awful will happen, I'm sure of it. As a guardian for humanity, I can’t just let that happen."   
"How do you know all this, angel?" Crowley asked.   
Aziraphale shrugged. "He's been coming here for a few years now. I think it's the only safe place he has. His cousin treats him like a punching bag, I know that, and his aunt and uncle are simply ghastly from what I've seen."

Crowley rubbed his temples. "Yeah, I got that impression."   
"He's really quite sweet," the angel added. "Terrified to take up space. I can't imagine how they've been treating him, but he likes to read." He pronounced this statement as others might have said “he rescues lost puppies”.    
"He's a good kid," Crowley admitted. "I think I ran into him as a snake once, he was… nice."

Aziraphale beamed. "You see? Besides, we've raised children before."

"Once! And Warlock was a mess by the time we'd finished with them, I can't even imagine what they're going to tell their therapist when they finally visit one."   
"Look, it's a temporary measure," he assured the demon, insincerely. "We can foster Harry while we look for a wizarding family who would be happy to adopt him, and then his own kind can take care of him."   
"We don't even know if he  _ wants _ to live with us!" Crowley exclaimed.   
"So, I can ask," Aziraphale answered with just a trace of smugness. "I'll have to introduce you, of course, but I have a feeling he won't mind."

Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, letting time wash over them again. Harry still cringed in a corner, staring.   
"It's all right, Harry," Aziraphale smiled reassuringly as he knelt down so as not to tower over the boy. "This is Crowley, my partner. He tries to look scary, but he's actually very nice."

"Hey, I'm not nice!" Crowley protested, and the boy hid a tiny giggle.

"Now, I'm sure you have many questions, and I will do my best to answer them, my dear," the angel said. "But first, I think another cup of cocoa will do us both good." He turned to Crowley. "Crowley, dearest, would you turn on the kettle for me?"   
Crowley made a show of rolling his eyes, but began making his way to the back of the shop. "Yes, yes, of course."    
Aziraphale took the opportunity to get up and offer the boy a biscuit. "Here. Would you like to come sit with me in the back? I believe we have a great deal to discuss."

Harry hesitantly took the biscuit. "Yes, Mister Fell."

The back of the bookshop was less eerie and more cozy than the front. Instead of turning away potential customers, its purpose was clearly one of hospitality, from the plush, worn seating to the shafts of light sneaking through the windows in the alleyway. 

"Do sit down," Mr. Fell said, and Harry sat gingerly on the smallest chair. "Now. What would you like to know?"   
Harry blinked. "What did you do to my aunt and uncle?" he asked. Then, unable to stop himself, he continued. "Are you magic? What was Aunt Petunia saying about my parents? Why did Mister Crowley say that thing about snakes? Do I have to go back to the Dursleys?" He clapped his hands over his mouth, mortified at his outburst.  _ Don't ask questions _ , his uncle's voice growled in the back of his mind.   
Mr. Fell looked at Harry over the rims of his glasses with amusement. "That, my dear, is up to you."

Harry stared at Mr. Fell.

"To answer your first question, your aunt and uncle have been transported back to their home, with no memory of the events of the past hour," he said. Crowley walked into the room with two mugs of cocoa just in time to catch the boy's response.

"So you  _ are _ magic!" Harry exclaimed.

Crowley gave Aziraphale a smug look as he set the cocoa down on the table. The angel sighed nervously. "Yes, we are magic." When the angel picked up his mug, Crowley sprawled across the last available chair and immediately faded into the background.   
Harry perked up. "Can I see? Can you make fireballs? Or turn my uncle into a toad?"   
Aziraphale frowned. "Well, I suppose I  _ could _ , although that would certainly not be appropriate…" Harry, remembering himself, shrunk back down. "Ah! Here's something: let there be light!" He snapped his fingers, and a pearly white glow illuminated the room. Harry's eyes shone.    
Behind his glasses, Crowley winced. He snapped his own fingers, and the room went back to its previously dim lighting.

"That was marvelous!" the boy exclaimed. "What else can you do?"   
Aziraphale smiled. "Quite a bit, dear boy, but let's not get too far ahead of ourselves. Now, as for your other questions."   
"My parents," he prompted eagerly, and Crowley hid a smile.

"Ah, yes. Well, I certainly don't have the full story, but from what your aunt said, your parents were... wizards," Aziraphale translated the remark as delicately as he could.   
"Wizards!" Harry sounded rather stunned at the thought of it.   
"Quite right," he said. "Which brings us to our current dilemma." He looked significantly at Crowley, who sighed and nodded. "Your current guardians are  _ clearly  _ not looking after your wellbeing. Ordinarily, I would refrain from getting too involved — abusive guardians are tragically commonplace, and I simply can't foster every child who needs a home, as much as I would like to."

Harry just stared at him, not sure where this was going.

"But, well, the magic is a complicating factor," the angel dithered. "Your aunt and uncle are simply not prepared to deal with a child who will soon enough begin manifesting uncontrolled magical abilities, especially in such a... volatile home as the one they seem to encourage. As something of a magical steward of the area, it seems to me that I have a responsibility to prevent that sort of mess from occurring in any case."   
Harry frowned. His vocabulary was better than most children his age, but Mr. Fell liked to use very big words indeed. He was definitely a little bit confused. "A child who will — wait, are you saying I have magic too?"

"He's saying yer a wizard, Harry," Crowley called from across the room.

Harry flinched hearing a stranger's voice, then understanding hit him like a ton of bricks _. A wizard?  _ How could he possibly be a wizard? He'd spent his life being clouted by Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn't they been turned into warty toads every time they'd tried to lock him in a cupboard?    
"I think you must have made a mistake," he said quietly. "I don't think I can be a wizard."

To his surprise, Mr. Fell chuckled. "Not a wizard? Never made things happen when you were scared or angry?"   
Harry looked down.    
Now that he came to think about it… every odd thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with him had happened when he, Harry, had been upset or angry… chased by Dudley's gang, he had somehow found himself on the roof of the school… dreading going back to school with that ridiculous haircut, he'd managed to grow it back…   
Harry looked up again. Mr. Fell was smiling kindly at him.    
"You see? You're capable of more than you realize, my dear."   
Then something Mr. Fell had said earlier caught up to his brain. "Wait, you said something about stopping that mess from happening? How're you gonna do that? Are you going to keep me from becoming a wizard?"

"No, of course not!" Mr. Fell exclaimed. "No, I meant to keep your powers from causing chaos with your aunt and uncle."   
"And how're you gonna do that?" Harry asked, eyes wide.

The bookshop owner suddenly looked bashful. "Well… you could come live with me."

His jaw dropped.  _ "What? _ " he squeaked. When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the Dursleys were his only family. He'd given up on those dreams a long time ago.   
"Just for now, and only if you'd like to," he rushed to say. "You don't have to. It just — it seems to me that your aunt and uncle are truly  _ awful  _ guardians, and since you'll be showing bigger signs of magic soon enough, it's probably safer for everyone involved if you get out of that house. We could take you in for now, until we can find a nice wizarding family who wants to adopt you."

"I'd never have to go back to the Dursleys?"

“Not if you don't want to." Mr. Fell fiddled with the ring on his finger.

"Won't they come after me?"

"I can make them forget you ever existed." He leaned over, meeting Harry's eyes. Under the half-moon spectacles, his eyes were a pale, washed out blue, almost grey. "Harry. You're eight years old, you're old enough to make some decisions for yourself. Do you want to live with me? I'm afraid I'm not always the easiest to get along with, always in my books. And you'd have to live with Crowley too, although I suspect you two will get along very well. Is that — is that something you'd like?"   
Harry looked at Crowley.    
The strange man was tall and thin, his skin a middling brown, his black hair slicked back, and his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. For some reason, even though he was dressed to intimidate, Harry was less scared of Crowley than he was of any adult other than Mr. Fell. It was all bluff, he thought, like a cat fluffing up its tail.    
"Why do you wear sunglasses indoors?" The question popped out of his mouth. He cringed a little, expecting to be yelled at, but to his surprise, Crowley's lips twitched in a slight smile.    
The man reached up and took the sunglasses off. His eyes were bright yellow, almost amber in this lighting, with slit pupils and no whites.

"Oh," he said, feeling faint. "Like a snake."

"Exactly," Crowley said, sounding satisfied. "You know your animals pretty well, most kids would've thought cat." He paused. "Most adults would’ve run screaming."   
"I like snakes," Harry said shyly. Crowley smiled.

"I think we'll get along just fine, Harry," he said.

Harry smiled back, just a little. He thought hard, about Mr. Fell's constant kindness throughout the years, about all the revelations he was still reeling from, about the way they had just stood up for him against the Dursleys without hesitation. "Mister Fell?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"I want to stay here."


	2. A Whole New World

“I want to stay here.” Harry's voice was firm. 

"Well, that's settled, then!" Aziraphale exclaimed, beaming. "Now, I believe we should go pay your aunt and uncle a visit. Would you like to come along?"  
Harry shrank down. "What for?" he asked hesitantly.

"I have three objectives in mind," he said, raising three fingers and ticking them off one by one. "Firstly, to retrieve any of your belongings you want to bring with you; secondly, to see if they have any additional information as to your past; and thirdly, to wipe their memories, so that child services cannot go hauling you back to them." He smiled as he reached the end of the list.  
Harry relaxed visibly. "Oh." He appeared to think for a moment, before shaking his head. "There's nothing there I care about."  
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. "Really? You don't have any worldly possessions?"  
Harry shrugged. "All my clothes are awful cast—offs from Dudley, and s'not like anyone ever gives me things. Honestly, I'd be happy if I never had to see that place again."

The angel's eyes softened. He wanted nothing more than to offer his deepest sympathies, but he suspected Harry wouldn't want to feel pitied. "I see." He stood up. "Well, I'll be off then. Crowley, dear, would you help Harry make himself at home?" He met Crowley's eyes, making sure Crowley understood what he was asking. The demon nodded. Then he thought of something. "Oh, Harry, you'll be all right with Crowley, won't you? If you're not comfortable being left alone with him, I could stay here instead. I do think it would be better if I were the one to go talk to your aunt and uncle, seeing as I know more about the situation, but I'm sure Crowley could handle it."

Harry blinked. He wasn't used to people asking him what he was okay with, and the soft feeling of uncertainty it gave him was very strange. "Um — I think I'll be alright," he said, glancing over to Crowley.  
"Wonderful!" Mr. Fell smiled warmly, meeting his eyes. "Harry, I know this situation is not ideal, but I'm very glad you've come to stay with us."

Harry was speechless.  
They were adopting him out of charity, and now they were thanking him? "I should be the one to thank you, Mr. Fell. Why are you — " _Don't ask questions_ , his uncle's voice echoed in his mind. "I mean, I can hardly believe this is happening."

"Don't be so thankful, kid, he can be a right bastard sometimes," Crowley interrupted, smiling, before answering the question Harry hadn't dared ask. "Look, we like kids. Always have. And I have to say, it's been a bit boring lately. We were overdue for a change. I suspect if you hadn't landed here, I would've come home one day to an entire litter of kittens or something."  
Harry laughed a little at that.  
Mr. Fell looked indignant, though the laughter twinkled in his eyes. "As if! You're the one who wanted to adopt a bloody basilisk."

Crowley just grinned and waved his hand lazily. "Off you go, angel."  
Mr. Fell rolled his eyes, but bent down to give Crowley a quick peck on the lips before walking out of the shop.

Crowley looked over at Harry. "Ssso," he said. "Want a tour?"  
The boy blinked. "A tour?"

Crowley grinned. "You haven't seen the upstairs yet, have you?" He slid to his feet and sauntered toward the staircase, gesturing for Harry to follow. He always loved how the staircase rose up toward the skylight; in good weather, beams of sunlight filtered through the air and caught on dust particles, and walking up the stairs felt like ascending into something much warmer and more welcoming than Heaven. He performed a few quick miracles as he walked up the stairs, until the flat was a little more suitable for its new child resident. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he glanced back toward Harry, who was looking — well, a bit overwhelmed, but at least it seemed more like awe and uncertainty than actual fear. That was progress.  
He waited for the boy to catch up before strolling into the kitchen.

The kitchen was a far cry from the cozy, antique clutter of the bookshop. All stainless steel and chrome, with marble countertops and an intimidating array of obscure devices, the kitchen looked like it had come straight out of a cooking show.  
"Now this, Harry, is my domain," he said, gesturing widely. "The angel loves to _eat_ food, but he says learning to cook would spoil the magic. Personally, I think it's because the last time he tried to cook he almost set the bloody flat on fire."  
Harry looked like he was trying to hide a giggle.  
Crowley grinned again and continued. "Now, you're welcome to pretty much anything except the booze. Over here — " he pointed to one of the cabinets, "is where we keep the snacks. You're a growing boy, so if you're hungry, eat, even if it's two in the morning. I guarantee sometimes my angel does the same. I came in here at three o'clock once to make sure the oven was turned off and I swear, he was standing there eating there in nothing but his boxers eating Cheerios with a fork! Scared the shit out of me." He stopped.  
Harry's eyes were wide as saucers.  
"What?" Crowley prompted. Had he already done something to terrify the kid?

"I can — I can eat whenever I want?" Harry finally blurted out, sounding shocked. “But what about - what about the cost? Aren’t you worried it’ll spoil me?”

Crowley bit his lip, fighting the urge to curse the Dursleys into oblivion. Harry must have caught some of the anger in his eyes, because the boy reflexively tensed up. Crowley took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. "It’sssss not - I’m not worried. It's alright, I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at your aunt and uncle for how they treated you."  
"Oh." Harry sounded a touch surprised, but at least he relaxed.  
"But yeah, you can eat whenever you want, so long as you clean up afterwards. I cook dinner most days, and breakfast usually, although by the time we get up it's often more like lunch. If you're ever not getting enough food, just let me know and I'll make more." He looked at Harry, fighting to swallow the lump in his throat. "You'll never go to bed hungry again if I have anything to say about it."

Harry looked down, blinking rapidly. Crowley let out a breath and stuck his hands in his pockets. "Pots and pans are over here, fridge is there, dishwasher — do you like to cook?"  
"Um — I mean, Aunt Petunia had me do most of the basic cooking, but she didn't trust me with the hard stuff," Harry said tentatively.

"Oh. Well, I'll never make you cook if you don't want to," he said, trying not to sound too disappointed. "But if you ever want to learn more complicated stuff, I'd be happy to teach you. Now, over here is where we usually eat."  
He led Harry to the smaller room sectioned off from the kitchen by the suggestion of a door. It featured a lovely, antique wooden table with a pale green tablecloth, four matching chairs, and a vase filled with flowers. The far wall was mostly windows, although Crowley avoided pointing this out because he wasn't quite ready to explain the yard situation to Harry.

They continued onwards.  
Crowley pointed out the various washrooms, the closets, the bland bedroom they kept for guests (mainly Adam and occasionally Warlock). He gestured to his and Aziraphale's room at the end of the hall. "That's where me n' the angel sleep — well, mostly me, Zira doesn't do much sleeping. The bastard usually just sits there and reads, looking all insufferably prim until I poke him." He smirked. "Don't be afraid to come in here if you need something, just knock first." **  
** Harry nodded solemnly.  
Crowley continued down the hall and pointed to the door on the right. "And that right there — that's your room, if you'd like."  
Harry tentatively peeked his head in and froze. Crowley frowned — was it not to the boy's liking?

"You — you have a whole room just for me?" the boy squeaked. "A real room, with a window and space for more than just a bed and room to stand?" He turned to look at the door. "And a lock?"

Crowley blinked. "You like it?"

This appeared to be the last straw for Harry.  
The boy fought for breath, his eyes filling with tears— and Nanny Ashtoreth took over. She scooped up Harry and sat them both down on the bed, rocking him in her arms. The demon held him tight, not minding the wetness that slowly soaked through her shirt. "Shh, shh, it's alright," she said, using one hand to smooth down his hair. "You're safe now. You never have to speak to those horrible people again."  
"S-s-sorry," Harry gasped out, voice muffled through her chest.  
"It's perfectly fine, dear, sometimes you need a good cry," Crowley soothed. "There's no need to apologize." She continued rocking him gently, encouraging him to breathe deeply. The boy acted so serious and careful, she had almost forgotten he was only eight. _He's never had the chance to act like a child_. The realization felt like a punch in the gut. When his tears subsided, she miracled a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. "Now, let's go to the washroom and get you cleaned up a bit, and get you a glass of water from the kitchen. When you're feeling a bit better, we can go back downstairs and finish the tour."

When they made their way downstairs, Crowley showed Harry to the front of the bookshop.  
"Now," she said, "this part is a bit tricky. You see this dial?" She pointed to the circular dial near the door. Harry nodded. "It's blue right now, which means we're at the Wraysbury entrance. If I turn it to the right —" she reached out and turned the dial, which made a sound that could only be described as _shplarp_ as the color changed to red. "Now we're in Soho."

Harry blinked. "What?"

Crowley smiled, and beckoned for him to open the door. Hesitantly, as though expecting some trick, Harry approached the door. When he opened it, a lorry drove loudly right past the entrance, and he stumbled back. He peeked his head out a moment later. "Whoa!" he exclaimed. He turned back to Crowley. "Are we really in London?"  
"Yep," she answered, popping the _p_ . "You can go outside if you want to look around."  
Harry nervously stepped out of the bookshop. "It won't disappear if I leave?" he asked.  
"No, you can always come in through any door, even if it's not set to that location," she answered, stepping out with him. "The dial will automatically set itself to whichever door was opened most recently." They wandered around Soho a bit, before Crowley decided it was time to get back to the shop.  
"Now, there's one more location, but it's not really a storefront," she said, closing the door behind them. She turned the dial to the last setting. "Green is for South Downs." 

She opened the door again, this time to a beautiful garden. Harry gasped audibly from behind her, which she found quite gratifying. "See, we wanted to retire in the country," she explained, walking out onto the grass. The garden glistened in the sunlight after the rain, drips of water occasionally falling from the leaves overhead. "But Zira's been in Soho so long, he's practically a relic. He's done a lot for the community there, and we'd get bored eventually outside of London."  
They picked their way along the pebbled path. It was approaching the end of summer, and the apples and pears were just beginning to blush. "And I figured, since we were already bending the laws of physics, why not add a third location? I've always loved petty suburban drama, and the angel thinks it's 'quaint'." She paused. "'Course, Zira also seemed to think that brawl in the Mended Drum was quaint, the one time I brought him, so I wouldn't read too much into that, if you know what I mean."  
"Did you make this garden with magic?" Harry asked, looking around with wide eyes.  
Crowley huffed. "Not really," she said. "Mostly I just talk to them." She stalked up to a wisteria artfully twining along the wooden fence. "Oi you! Looking a bit shabby, aren't you?" Crowley loomed over it, peering at the leaves. "Is that a spot I see?"

The plant trembled.

"You know what happens to plants that let themselves get spotty. You have twenty-four hours to fix it," she hissed, before tossing her head and sauntering back to Harry. "Zira's too nice to them," she told him. "That's why I don't let him do any gardening. He'll make them spoiled."  
Harry nodded somberly. 

Crowley felt a faint ping in her mind, and whipped her head around to look back at the cottage. "The angel's back," she said. "You ready to head back inside?"

Harry nodded, and followed her back into the bookshop. 

* * *

Aziraphale sat, quite uncharacteristically, in silence on the ride back from Little Whinging. He thanked the driver with only a sliver of his usual charm, finding himself immediately drawn back into his thoughts.

The boy's parents had definitely been wizards, that much was clear. Beneath all Petunia's disgust and loathing was a heavy foundation of jealousy over her sister's abilities and grief at the loss of contact between them. What was more troubling were the circumstances of the Potters' deaths. It wouldn't do, for the boy to grow up as the savior of the wizarding world. The protection spell would have to be replaced, as well. Aziraphale and Crowley could certainly do much better than some human wizard's protection spell in any case, even if the original _was_ based in blood.  
How much should they tell Harry about his parents' death? He would have to know all of it by the time he would be sent to the wizarding school, of course. Aziraphale was rather inclined to tell him everything, the poor boy had been lied to so much.

"Sir?" the driver prompted.  
"Oh, I do apologize, I hadn't noticed we'd arrived," Aziraphale sucked in a breath. He took care of the payment and headed back into the bookshop. He closed the door behind him, breathing in the familiar air with a small sigh of relief and glanced around, frowning as he realized he couldn't feel Crowley's presence anywhere. The hint of worry nudged at the back of his brain — perhaps those Dark wizards? He stepped forward, and was almost to the back of the shop when he felt the dial turn.  
Aziraphale whirled around.  
The door opened, and Crowley and Harry stepped inside.

He relaxed.

"Angel!" Crowley greeted with a smile. At some point while he was gone, she must have switched to a more feminine body, though her clothing and hair had remained the same — probably keeping it subtle to avoid confusing Harry. "I was just showing Harry around the garden!" She paused as she caught sight of him. "Is something the matter? You looked worried, just now."  
Aziraphale shook his head. "No, everything's fine. I was concerned for a moment when I couldn't find you in the shop."  
Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Should we not have gone outside? I didn't realize you'd be so paranoid."  
A sigh. "In light of recent information, it's worth taking a few precautions, is all."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Really? Well, that's interesting."  
"Yes. Let's move somewhere more comfortable, and I can share what I've learned," he said, heading to the back room. "Harry, how did you enjoy the garden? I assume Crowley showed you how to use the dial?"  
"Yes, Mr. Fell," Harry answered, following him. "The garden is marvelous!"  
"It is, isn't it?" he said fondly as he took a seat. "How do you like your room? We'll go shopping soon for furnishings and whatnot of course, things to make it feel more like yours."  
"I love it," Harry said, eyes shining.  
"Oh," he said, taken aback. It was hardly more than a bed, a lamp, four walls, and a roof at this point, but if Harry liked it... "Alright, then!"  
"Let's go to IKEA," said Crowley, eyes gleaming through her shades.  
Aziraphale groaned. "Not IKEA, Crowley!"  
"Don't you want to experience my masterwork?"  
"Do you really want to inflict that on yourself?" Aziraphale demanded. Crowley just grinned. Harry looked between the two of them, clearly lost.

"So. Precautions," Crowley prompted at last.  
"Right." The angel took a deep breath. "So, Harry. Your parents. They were apparently very well-respected wizards. However, around when you were born, a very nasty Dark wizard was causing quite a bit of chaos in the wizarding community. When you were only a year old, this Dark wizard found your family's house and killed your parents."  
Harry's eyes widened.  
He blinked. "Wait, but if he killed my parents, why didn't he bother to kill me?"

"I can't say for certain, but it sounds like the curse he used to try to kill you ended up rebounding and injuring him," Aziraphale said. "He hasn't been spotted since that night."

"Aunt Petunia said they were worthless drunks who died in a car crash," Harry said softly, like he wasn’t sure which to believe — the realistic but grim tale, that he had been told by his only family his whole life, or magic and heroes right out of a storybook? But magic was real, he’d seen it right here.  
Aziraphale shook his head. "She didn't want you to know about magic," he said. "She didn't want her family to know. She only agreed to take you in under the condition that her husband and son would never know about magic."  
"If the Dark wizard is gone, why are you still worried?" Crowley asked.

"The reason Harry was sent to live with his aunt and uncle was because his followers are still around," Aziraphale answered. "And we don't know for sure that the Dark wizard is truly dead. The wizard Petunia had corresponded with thought Harry would be safest outside of the wizarding world completely, so that nobody would know where he was. He also placed a protection charm on Harry, which would keep him and the Dursleys safe so long as he was living with his aunt and uncle."

"Does that mean I have to go back to my aunt and uncle's?" Harry’s voice trembled.  
"No, no, of course not!" Aziraphale soothed. "No, we're perfectly capable of protecting you from any pesky human wizard, don’t worry. I daresay we'll even be better than whatever charm was on you before."  
Crowley grinned, showing a hint of fang. "They won't dare try to harm you, not while you're under our roof," she said. "But you're right, angel, we should make sure he's safe outside as well."  
"Should we do it now?" he asked. They both looked at Harry. While he didn't seem to be on the verge of tears, he still looked understandably overwhelmed by all the realizations he'd had over the course of the day.

"Nah," Crowley said. She smiled at Harry. "You'll be safe enough for tonight, and it's been a very long day. We can deal with it in the morning."

Aziraphale glanced at the old grandfather clock in the corner of the room. "Oh, it is getting rather late for you, isn't it? When is your bedtime?"  
"Eight o'clock," Harry said.  
"It's coming up, then," he said. "Feel free to make use of the spare toothbrush and toothpaste in the washroom, and I'm sure Crowley can lend you a shirt to sleep in."  
Crowley nodded. "We'll go clothes shopping tomorrow."  
She stood and headed upstairs, returning a moment later with a large black t-shirt. "Here you go."  
Harry took it hesitantly, standing up. "Thank you," he said. He paused. "What should I call you? Both of you."  
Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.  
"Uncles?" Aziraphale suggested.  
Crowley shook her head. "Bad history with uncles," she said. "Godfathers? No, no one actually calls people that."  
"People have godfathers!" Aziraphale protested.  
"Yeah, but it's not, like, a title," Crowley said. "Look, just call me Crowley."  
"I'll be Zira, then," Aziraphale said firmly.  
Harry nodded his understanding. "Okay."

"Goodnight, Harry," Crowley said. "Want a hug?" She opened her arms.  
Harry hesitated, then moved in to hug her. He turned to Aziraphale, who stood with a smile. They hugged, and Aziraphale ruffled his hair as they parted. "Goodnight, Harry."

“Goodnight!"

Harry clutched Crowley's borrowed shirt as he climbed the stairs. He found his new room (his own room!) and got ready for bed, focusing on each action to avoid getting lost in thought. Finally, he climbed into bed, settling under the covers. He stared at the ceiling, thoughts swirling. So much had changed in one day! If someone had told him yesterday that he'd end up living with the sweet old bookshop owner and his partner, he would never have believed it. And that wasn't even counting the magic! Everything felt so new. The mattress was very soft. The blankets were thick and warm, and smelled just a bit like lavender. He heard the faint sounds of conversation below, not in his aunt's shrill voice or his uncle's bellowing, but in Mr. Fell's prim voice and Crowley's smooth one, calm and cheerful and full of love.

He rolled over.  
The mattress was too soft. He felt like he was sinking into clouds. Crowley's chest had felt a bit… squishy, when they'd hugged. Perhaps he was imagining it? Something had seemed a bit different about Crowley, after Harry'd cried like a baby in his new room.  
Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't the weirdest thing that had happened today.

Harry gave up and moved to the floor, piling his blankets into a nest. He screwed his eyes shut. _Please,_ he whispered. _Let this not have been all just a dream._

If it was a dream, he never wanted to wake up.


	3. In Which Aziraphale Comes Briefly Out Of Retirement To Smite The Deserving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wakes up to a lovely breakfast, his godparents cast a protection spell on him, and things go a bit sideways.

Harry Potter drifted awake.   
His first, hazy thought bloomed into a burst of panic. How late had he slept? Why hadn't his aunt woken him up? She would be furious with him for not having breakfast ready!   
He sat up with a jolt. Had someone turned the light on? A bird called loudly from a few feet away. He twisted to face the sound, finding himself staring out... a window?    
Memories rushed back to him.

_ It wasn't a dream! _

He stood up, grabbing his glasses, then reaching for the clothing he had discarded yesterday. As he pulled on Dudley's old sweatpants, he smiled. This was the last time he would have to wear these. He stumbled out into the hallway. He smelled… pancakes?

Harry wandered into the kitchen. Crowley was standing in front of the stove, dressed once again in black skinny jeans and collared shirt, though he'd left off the blazer and tie, and a black apron delicately edged with lace was tied around his waist.   
"Hullo, Harry!" Crowley greeted with a smile. "I'm making breakfast, you like pancakes?"   
He nodded.   
"Great! I'm almost done, would you mind getting Zira? He's probably still reading in bed," Crowley said.   
"Okay," Harry said, hesitating.   
"Just knock on the door, he'll be fine with it. It's not like he'll be sleeping or anything," Crowley reassured him. Harry nodded and trotted down the hallway. When he reached Crowley and Zira's door at the end of the hall, he knocked timidly.

"Come in," Zira's voice called out.   
He pushed the door open. It wasn’t at all the way he expected any room Crowley lived in to look. Okay, it was big, and expensive-looking, but that was about it.   
The room was absolutely plastered with tartan. The wallpaper was tartan. The bedsheets were tartan. Even the lampshade was a light blue and cream tartan. On the right side of the bed, Zira's head and shoulders poked out of the covers, a book in his hands. He was wearing an honest-to-God nightcap. When he caught sight of Harry, he smiled and put his book down.   
"Good morning!"   
"Morning, Mr. Fell," Harry said awkwardly. "Um. Crowley says he's almost done making pancakes?"   
The bookseller’s face lit up. "Oh, excellent! I'll be right over." He sat up, and Harry realized he was wearing an old-timey nightshirt as well. The nightshirt was tartan, of course. He looked like he came straight out of an old cartoon.   
Breakfast was amazing. Harry felt like he was in a movie. The pancakes were soft and thin, dusted with sugar and lemon juice. There were thick slabs of bacon, golden brown slices of toast, and a lovely fruit salad with strawberries and peaches and honey. Zira and Crowley chatted lightheartedly with an easy cheer that Harry had never encountered before. He mostly stayed quiet, focusing on his food, not sure where he fit in their easy conversation.   
At one point, Crowley looked straight at Harry. “I gotta ask you. Was the room covered in tartan?”   
Harry blinked. “Um. Yes?”   
Zira crossed his arms. “Tartan is stylish!” he huffed. Crowley glared at him, and he responded with a slightly guilty smirk. Harry giggled.   
Crowley shot Harry a look that said,  _ see what I have to deal with? _ The two of them continued debating their respective style preferences over the last bites of breakfast.

"Now, about that protection spell," Zira said as they finished washing up. Harry looked up. Zira looked him over thoughtfully. "How about we head downstairs, I usually use the back of the shop for ritual magic." In the back of the shop, Zira bustled around, grabbing various implements. Harry stood around awkwardly, while Crowley sprawled on a chair. Eventually, Zira recruited them to clear an area on the floor. He then drew a weirdly precise circle in chalk, sketching strange symbols around it.   
"When's your birthday?" Zira asked, looking up from his scribbling.   
"Uh - July 31st," Harry answered. Zira nodded and continued his markings.   
“Go on and stand in there, would you? It's not on yet, but you'll want to be in there already when we start."   
Harry nodded and stepped into the circle. Zira placed candles in particular locations around the circle. He made a few more markings, then went to light the candles.    
"Right. I'm starting now," he said, giving Crowley a look. Crowley stood up and made his way over to the circle, until the two were standing on opposite sides of the circle, with Harry in the center.

Zira began chanting something in a strange language. The room seemed far away, now, as though the only things in the world were the three of them and this circle. The lines on the floor began to glow. Beneath the strange words, Harry heard an odd ringing in Zira's voice, like the words were dissolving into a single clear note. From Crowley's side of the circle came the sound of whispering, like the wind over an endless field, or a thousand people whispering something in unison. It felt like the whole world was hanging onto every word.   
The pressure built.    
The circle glowed brighter, and Harry could have sworn he saw wings sprout from both of them, enormous white wings reaching out to cocoon him from every side. Zira was almost too bright to look at, while Crowley was wreathed in shadow, deeper than the black between the stars, pale wings outstretched like beams of soft moonlight, a ghostly white instead of sunlight. The whispering and the ringing both grew louder, louder, louder, until Harry thought his head would split open, it was too much, too loud, too bright, he couldn't stand it -

And then it was over.

Harry blinked. In the afterimages, he saw traces of strange shapes - of an enormous winged serpent, of a lion and eagle and man all merged into one being with many wings and more eyes - but when he blinked again, they had faded.   
"There we go," Zira said, sounding satisfied. "That should be more than enough - "   
_ "Augh!" _ Harry dropped to the ground with an involuntary shout, clutching his head. All of a sudden, it felt like his forehead was being  _ stabbed _ .   
"Harry?”

He couldn't tell which of them said it. He couldn't think, couldn't see… all he could think about was the blinding pain in his forehead. It felt like it was coming from right around his scar. He tried to fight it - he didn't want them to see him like this - but it hurt too much. He tried to say he was alright, but it came out as a whimper.   
“Oh dear."   
Something bright came towards him, and he mercifully blacked out.

"May you dream of whatever you like best," Aziraphale whispered. The boy tensed up for a moment, then relaxed, falling into a deep sleep.   
"What the  _ heaven _ , Aziraphale?" Crowley demanded, eyes wide.   
"I don't know!" he exclaimed. "Something reacted to the protection spell!"   
"I can see that!" Crowley said, voice rising.   
"Panicking won't help," Aziraphale said, thoroughly panicked himself.   
"What else do you suggest I do?" Crowley demanded, but he subsided. "Sorry. Look, we need to figure out what's causing this. It looked like the pain was coming from his forehead?"   
Aziraphale bent to examine Harry. He lifted the boy's hair up from his forehead to reveal a jagged scar, shaped like lightning. Crowley whistled. "Now, I know he had this scar before," Aziraphale cautioned him. "I saw it in his aunt's memories of him as a baby."   
"Yeah, but look closer," Crowley said, crouching down next to him. "Might need to pull out a few more eyes."   
Aziraphale frowned, but unfurled a couple of wings from the ether, a dozen or so eyes blinking open. His eyebrows flew to his forehead. "What  _ is  _ that?" he breathed. Nestled in Harry's scar was a little, wriggling piece of shadow.   
"Looks like a nasty bit of ssoul," Crowley said, a bit of hiss creeping into his voice. "Saw that once in the fourteenth century. Ssome awful wizard guy decided to cheat death by sssplitting his ssoul into little pieces. Made Downsstairs real mad, I can tell you that, they were sstoking the boilers for him already. Had to wait another hundred years for sssomeone to finally track down all the assorted bits." He squinted at the scar. "Yup, definitely a piece of evil wizard. No idea why someone would put that in a  _ baby _ , though. Kind of defeats the point, putting it in a mortal."   
"A Horcrux?" Aziraphale blinked. "I'd read about them, but I didn't know they actually worked."   
Crowley shrugged. "You have to kill someone to do it, which tends to discourage people." He peered back at the scar. "This one doesn't look very well-made, though."   
A thought struck him, and Aziraphale's eyes widened. "Crowley - is it possible to make one of these on accident?"   
"How should I know?"   
"It's just that - we know the Killing Curse on Harry rebounded, for some reason. Perhaps that had something to do with it?" Aziraphale asked. "Could it have split the caster's soul, sent part of it into Harry?"   
Crowley reached for the awful thing. It wriggled more as he drew near it, shrieking when he plucked it out of Harry's forehead. In his sleep, Harry shuddered and calmed, his face easing out of its pained wince. The demon held it between two long fingers, and reached his aura out to Aziraphale's until the two of them were touching. " _ Ssshow me,"  _ he hissed.

_ Through Crowley's eyes, Aziraphale saw a flash of green light, and high, cold laughter. A redheaded woman -  _ Harry's mother _ , Aziraphale's stolen memories supplied - stood in front of a crib, barring the way. Another flash of green light, and the woman fell, revealing a dark-haired baby. Green flashed again, but this time it doubled back. The soul it struck was so fragile, already spread apart into so many pieces, that the impact caused it to shatter even further, and a little piece of soul shot out to embed itself into the baby. _

They blinked.    
Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale, back into their separate selves.   
"Well. Uh. That was. Something." Crowley's tongue flicked out to taste the air nervously. "Looks like you were right on the mark, angel."   
"And now we know what protected Harry," Aziraphale breathed. Crowley looked at him. "Sacrificial magic," he explained. "One of the oldest forms of protection. His mother died to save him, out of love."   
"Ah." Crowley nodded. "I thought I smelled hints of martyr on him. Guess that would be his mother." He looked to the wriggling thing in his hand. "Now, what do we do with this?"   
"We know there are more of the nasty things lying around," Aziraphale said. "We use this to track them down and destroy them." He pursed his lips. "I suspect that will be more your sort of thing, my dear. Sympathetic magic is a very fundamental sort, formal rituals won't be any help."   
"Yeah," Crowley said. "You should do the actual smiting, though."   
"Oh, if you insist." He rummaged around in a cabinet and pulled out a sword. Crowley stared.

"When'd you get that?" he demanded. "That's not  _ the  _ sword, is it?"   
"Well, no," Aziraphale mumbled. "After Armageddon, I thought - well, I thought it might be a good idea to be prepared. For next time. I got it from the goblins."   
Crowley beamed. "You didn't! Really?"   
Aziraphale blushed and nodded. "Let's focus on the matter at hand, dear."   
"Oh, alright." Crowley reached into the bit of soul and  _ pulled _ . Like called to like; he felt the nasty thing catch on something, a whole wriggling mass of things, and he twisted them together. " _ Now _ , angel!" The sword blazed with fire and struck. Something shrieked. He saw a ring shatter, a diary go up in flames, a goblet crack in two, a locket and a diadem turn black and smoke.

The shrieking stopped.

"I feel like six Horcruxes is a bit overkill," Aziraphale said with a sniff. He extinguished his sword. "Barely have any soul left at that point."   
Crowley smiled at Aziraphale, a bit giddy. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"   
The angel beamed. "Many, many times, my dear, and I never tire of hearing it." He wiped the sword on a spare handkerchief and put it back in the cabinet. "Although you did the tricky part here."   
“Yeah, but I love it when you go all righteous guardian angel," Crowley said, sauntering over to him and kissing him on the cheek. He glared at the burn marks on the floor, and they disappeared sheepishly. "I'll go put on some tea for when he wakes up."

“Should we tell him?" Aziraphale asked as Crowley rummaged around with the teapot. "It seems to me that learning the evil wizard who killed his parents was partly living in his forehead might be a touch traumatizing."   
"Mm. I hate to lie to the kid, but I see your point," Crowley said. "Besides, that's some nasty magic. Better to keep the people who know about it to a minimum. Not that Harry's likely to abuse that knowledge."   
"But he might let it slip to others," Aziraphale agreed, nodding.   
"He is only eight, after all." Crowley said. "Let's say it was a bit of dark magic left over from the curse that almost killed him. Not even a lie, really."

Clothes shopping was a success, although Crowley and Aziraphale's radically different attitudes towards clothing led to a lot of lighthearted bickering. Crowley failed to convince Aziraphale to go to IKEA, as they were tired of shopping by the time they had obtained a decent collection of clothing for Harry, but he did extract a promise to go to IKEA the next time they went out.   
The group returned to the bookshop, a bit at loose ends. Crowley disappeared abruptly upstairs, while Zira put on a pot of tea. When Crowley came back downstairs, he seemed a bit fidgety, stalking around the floor. Eventually, Zira whispered something in his ear, and he flopped down on a chair next to Harry.   
“So. Harry." Crowley fidgeted, not meeting his eyes. Harry's heart sank. Was Crowley going to tell him to leave? "What do you know about gender?"   
Harry blinked. "Uh. It's… a thing?"   
Zira huffed a quiet laugh as he came into the room, holding a tray with a tea pot and three cups. "Is it now?" he murmured.   
Crowley shot Zira a look and continued. "Well… It's not always as simple as being a boy or a girl."   
Harry wondered where Crowley was going with this.   
"Some people aren't a boy or a girl, or they're somewhere in the middle, or their gender shifts around a lot."   
Harry nodded. "Okay." He waited.

Crowley sighed. "Look, I'm trying to say that I'm genderfluid. Sometimes I'm a boy, sometimes I'm a girl, sometimes I'm somewhere in the middle or not on that scale at all."   
_ Oh.  _ Harry shrugged, relieved that Crowley's discomfort wasn't about him. "Okay."   
Crowley blinked. Which was weird, didn't Crowley have snake eyes? "You're... okay with that?"   
Harry shrugged again. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"   
Crowley smiled a little. "Some people make a big deal out of gender, is all. Makes everything awkward."   
"Oh." Harry thought a bit. "That's silly."

Zira snorted, pouring tea for the three of them. "I am in complete agreement, my dear. Gender is a ridiculous human construct. Personally, I want nothing to do with it. How would you like your tea?"   
"Oh - uh, two sugars and some milk, please," he answered, suddenly uncomfortable - he wasn't used to being served anything. He thought a bit more, turning to face Crowley again. "Do you want me to do anything differently? Like, if you're not a boy, should I still call you he?"   
Crowley smiled, clearly pleased at the question. "Thank you for asking! My pronouns do change - he/him when I'm a guy, she/her when I'm a girl, otherwise they/them is good."

“Which are you right now?"   
"Well, I'd like to be a girl right now, but I didn't want to freak you out," she answered wryly. She paused for a moment, then snapped her fingers. Her appearance didn't change drastically - her face was still rough and angular, her shoulders still broad, her frame still lanky rather than curvy - but her chest and hips gained a little bulk, remaining proportional to her thin frame, her skin looked a bit softer, she lost the cleanshaven scruff around the chin, and her hair grew out into a dark, wavy mane reaching just past her shoulder-blades.   
"Whoa!"   
Crowley smirked, looking a bit more relaxed. "Now, not everyone can change their appearance just like that," she warned. "Most humans can't - doctors have figured out some ways to make permanent changes, but definitely not how to shift on a day to day basis. So it's important to remember that for a lot of people, their body or what they look like might not match who they actually are." She hesitated, then snapped her fingers. A small plastic button reading "She/her" appeared on her chest. "Now that I think about it, this is probably a better way to know how to refer to me - Zira always knows, but other people won't always be able to tell from how I look."   
Harry nodded, a little uncertain. "So I should just read the button?"   
"Yup!" Crowley reached for her tea and took a small sip. "Oh, now that I've told you about that, there's also one more thing." She set her teacup back down on the table and leaned back.

Harry blinked. All of a sudden, instead of a dark, lanky woman sprawled on the chair, a small black snake was curled up on the cushion. It made eye contact with Harry, who gasped as he recognized the golden slit eyes. "You're a snake?!"   
“ _ Yes _ ," Crowley hissed.   
"That's  _ so cool!" _ he exclaimed. "Can you do that whenever you want? How do you talk? Could you turn into any kind of snake, or do you always look the same? Can you teach me to do that?"   
Crowley made a strange hissing noise, and Harry realized with a start that she was laughing. " _ Yes, I can turn into a snake whenever, and I could look like any kind of snake I wanted. You certainly couldn't do it the same way I do, but you might be able to learn something similar. And as for speaking… I'm not actually speaking English right now. _ "

Harry frowned. "What? Yes you are, I understand you perfectly!"

" _ That's because you speak Snake, _ " she said. She slithered across the chair and onto Zira's lap. " _ Tell him, angel. _ "   
Zira stroked her head fondly, and the snake leaned into the touches like a cat in the sun. "It's true," he said. "All I'm hearing are hisses. The only reason I understand what you're saying is because I've, ah, learned the language."   
"Wait, I'm speaking in Snake?" Harry asked, eyes wide.   
Zira chuckled. "Not right now, because you're speaking to me. But when you speak to Crowley in her snake form… yes."

Harry's mind boggled. There was no other word for it. Magic existing? Himself being a wizard? He was starting to accept that - maybe in some locked away, childish corner of his mind, he'd still believed that the world couldn't be entirely mundane. But understanding a language he'd never even learned? A  _ nonhuman  _ language? And speaking it without knowing he was speaking it? "No way!"   
"Thisssss iss me ssssspeaking English, Harry," Crowley said. " _ And this is me speaking in Snake. Do you hear the difference _ ?"   
Harry frowned. It did sound different - in the first, each word sounded like it took much more effort, like Crowley was struggling to shape the sounds. The second time she spoke, the words sounded much more fluid and natural. But it didn't  _ sound  _ like another language, it all registered in his head as English. "I can hear that you had a harder time talking the first time around, but it all sounds like English to me."   
“Fascinating," Zira breathed. "I've read of people with that ability, but this is the sort of first-hand information that -"   
"Focusssss, angel," Crowley hissed.   
Zira nodded. "Right, yes." He turned to Harry. "Say something to Crowley again, and this time, I want you to focus on how your lips are moving, what syllables you're actually forming with your mouth."   
“Okay." Harry looked at Crowley. " _ Uh. So, do you know why I can apparently speak to snakes? _ " As the words left his mouth, he knew Zira and Crowley were right. His mouth and lips were moving in a way that definitely wouldn't result in him speaking English. " _ Oh that's really weird! _ " Without trying at all, his mouth was making different sounds than what his brain said it should. It wasn't freaky, exactly, but it was… strange. "I'm not telling it to do that!"   
Crowley shifted back into a human, now sprawled across Zira's lap. "Yeah, that's gotta be weird. It's pretty cool, though, not a lot of people can do that."   
Zira coughed. "In fact, very, very few people have the ability to speak to snakes. I believe you bring the total up to about half a dozen in the British Isles who have that ability naturally. We call the language Parseltongue."   
Crowley snorted. "It's Snake."   
"Well, Parseltongue is the correct term -"   
"Who's the snake here?" Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow.   
Zira sighed. "You are, but -"   
"Look, it's the language snakes speak. It's called Snake. Why would you need a fancy name for it?" This sounded like an argument they'd had many times before.   
“Crowley, dear, he's going to need to know the word that other mages use," Zira said.   
Crowley rolled her eyes. "Fine."   
"In  _ any  _ case," Zira continued, "the ability to speak Parseltongue is a rare genetic trait, passed down through generations. No one really knows how it came about." He shot an unreadable glance at Crowley, who blushed for some reason. "Regardless, being a Parselmouth, as they call it, is a magical trait, rather than a learned skill, though technically anyone could learn the language."

Harry frowned. "Genetic?"   
"Passed down through families," Crowley supplied.   
"Huh." Harry tried it out. "I speak Snake. I'm a Parselmouth. Parselmouth sounds a little more mysterious, don't you think?"


	4. What has been lost...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dumbledore realizes that something has gone very, very wrong.  
> (Or maybe, just maybe, something went very right. But he doesn't know that yet.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 5/22/2020-- we've gotten a much better handle on Dumbledore's character since we first published this, so we wanted to rewrite some sections to reflect that

Albus Dumbledore was in the bath when he noticed.

A twinge of magic.   
Nothing that would be unusual, say, if school were in session and he was once again surrounded by rampant and completely untrained witches and wizards. But here, where he was alert to it? Albus frowned. Where was it coming from?   
It felt like something from an old spell, one he'd cast and forgotten about. He rummaged through his memories, searching. A stray thought led him to one memory in particular, and —  
_Oh,_ he thought. _Oh bugger Merlin's beard, it's_ that _one?_ _  
_ The enchantment laid seven years ago on James and Lily's baby, the one which tracked the boy wherever he went. Gone.

Or not gone, exactly. Albus had no trouble noting that the spell was still active, rather it wasn't detecting anything.   
That was even worse.   
Harry Potter was gone.

Water and wizard both sloshed from the tub when Albus stood up, summoning his wand to him with half a thought.   
“Accio map," he murmured, as soon as his hands had been dried on a fluffy fuschia towel. Albus tapped the tip of his wand to the map— and with a few quiet words, a pale golden glow seeped from his wand, spreading tendrils slowly across its surface. It skipped over Surrey completely, to Albus's resigned lack of surprise, to linger on… Soho? No, there were three points of light left: one in Soho, another in Wraysbury, and a third in the South Downs, all illuminated just as brightly as the others. After a few seconds, however, they all left, skittering off the map completely with the rest of the spell's glow as if it had all been in error. Albus felt a twinge of worry, and he frowned. Everything should have been accounted for.    
Was the boy… dead? Gone? Albus's hands swept over the map in agitation, searching for some patch of glow still shining.  _ Surely not…  _ If the Death Eaters had gotten to him, they would have wanted to leave some sign of their accomplishment behind. The death of the Boy Who Lived would be a staggering blow to the wizarding world, they wouldn't simply let such a horror pass unnoticed. Surely it couldn’t have been some Muggle accident?   
He hissed out a breath.    
No. No, he couldn't bear to contemplate that, the boy dead by some horrible mischance. He would call in a few trusted allies, and together they would find him. They had to. They would search all of England, if necessary. 

If Harry was anywhere, he must be in one of those three areas. It was the only hint he had. 

_ Merlin, what a disaster. _

Albus threw on his bathrobe in a distracted haze.    
He cast his Patronus. A phoenix appeared in a surge of silver light, and Albus couldn’t help but smile for an instant— by its very nature, the Patronus charm would always give him a moment of joy.    
“Wait until Minerva is alone," he instructed, "then repeat to her this message: Meet me in my chambers at once. It is a matter of great importance and urgency, and I require your advice." That was always the strangest thing about communicating by Patronus: they could not speak their own minds, if they had any, but they were intelligent enough to follow instructions. Was the Patronus sentient? Albus had always wondered.

With the whooshing of wings, Fawkes tumbled into the room. The phoenix was still young, in this life, barely fledged and only clumsily capable of flight, but that would be sufficient.   
"Perfect timing, as always," Albus murmured. It was with great fondness that he bent to pick the phoenix up and fix those few jostled feathers. "Kindly go visit Alastor for me. Tell him— oh, bother." Alastor Moody would never believe a written message.

"Alastor, I need your help," Albus spoke to thin air, rummaging with one hand until he found an enchanted music box on his dresser, and opening it up to play a quiet counterpoint in the background.    
If this message were for almost anyone else, it would not be worth the trouble— but if the music were undisturbed, Moody would at least find there to be some kind of evidence that the memory had made it to him unaltered. "This issue must be kept quiet, but I require assistance." The phoenix gave him a curious glance, but merely fluffed its wings in response. "I am sending Fawkes with this memory of mine for you to view. If you allow it, Fawkes will bring you back here to me, so we will not have to waste time on travel. Please, let him. I am busy enough here, I would rather avoid making an extra trip."   
He hesitated. "As to why you should trust me to be Albus Dumbledore as I so claim— the first time we met, I accidentally broke my nose by walking into a lamppost. You immediately destroyed the post, fearing that some Dark curse had been laid on it, only to discover that I was merely drunk and not paying enough attention. You sent your Patronus to guide me home." A pause. He had best follow the rest of the protocol as well. "The song playing is a three-part blues arrangement of last year’s Sorting Hat Song recorded in my music box, and has continued for just over three verses, beginning with the start of my second sentence to you."

Albus closed the music box.    
He raised his wand to his temple, and silvery light began to gather at its tip. With his other hand, Albus silently summoned a vial from his Pensieve, and carefully dropped the thread of memory into the vial. He stoppered it. "Here." His voice was soft. "Bring this to Alastor, please, and then wait for his reply. If he allows it, bring him back here with you."   
Fawks chirped, taking the vial in its beak. With a final nod, the phoenix dissolved back into flame.

A sigh.

If there were two people he knew he could trust with this, they would be Minerva and Alastor. Although they would not be pleased by the news. 

"Albus?" That would be Minerva. Sure enough, the witch was storming her way through the door. "What is it? What— " Her eyes widened as she caught sight of him, then she immediately turned and shielded her eyes. ”Albus,” she said calmly, an edge of tension to her voice. “Kindly put some proper clothing on before summoning me to your rooms, as a general guideline.”   
Dumbledore blinked. "Clothes? Oh. Yes, right, I admit I quite forgot about that part." He glanced down at himself. "You know, I'm still not sure who gave me this fluffy fuchsia bathrobe? Where's my— ah, yes." He summoned a set of robes to his hand, and ducked into the closet long enough to slip them on. By the time he came back out, Minerva had a wry sort of smile on her face.   
"So what seems to be the issue?" she prompted.   
"Give me a moment," Albus gave her an apologetic grimace. "I sent Fawkes to fetch Moody here, he should hopefully be here any—"

_ Fwoosh! _

By the time Moody had been reassured that everyone present was, in fact, who they claimed to be, Albus was impatient to be out searching. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed by this point, I placed a set of tracking spells on the young Harry Potter many years ago,” he said.    
The two looked sharply at him. 

Albus took a breath. "Those tracking spells just ceased to detect him." He paused. Alastor’s good eye stared intently at him. "Renewing the spell revealed nothing, nor did any of the other methods I could cast from here. I would like you both to try and locate him yourselves, in the hopes that it was merely an error in the spellwork or a targeted obfuscation, unlikely as either option seems. Failing that, we will need to go searching on foot.  _ Quietly.  _ I trust you can both keep this investigation hushed until we know for sure what has occurred."   
"Absolutely." Minerva answered, her face drawn.    
Alastor nodded his agreement. "That would be a right mess, if the rest of the world found out." 

Dumbledore let out a low breath, eyes flicking over the hoard of magical artifacts he called his chambers as he idly contemplated their uses and dismissed each in turn. "Let us hope they do not need to find out about this, then."

It wasn't the spell, or the map.

Moody and Minerva had each cast every tracking spell they could think of, and none of them had found the boy— the best they'd managed to cast had given the same result as Albus's spell, of lingering on those same three spots before breaking entirely. That was something, at least. Soho, Wraysbury, and the South Downs. Better than nothing. Probably not random chance, either, if the error had shown up for all three of them.   
Albus also called in Kingsley Shacklebolt, before they left, to help in the search: Shacklebolt would take Soho, being the one who had most recently wandered Muggle London; Minerva would take Wraysbury, and Moody the South Downs. Albus himself would go to the Dursley home and try to follow Harry's trail from there. And beyond that? All he could do was hope to find some hint of where the boy had gone.

With a heavy heart, Albus Apparated away.

4 Privet Drive.   
The most dismal Muggle home on a street full of dismal Muggle homes.   
Albus sighed. There was a reason why he never checked up on the boy as often as he wished: the Dursleys were, quite frankly, incredibly unpleasant. Nevertheless, when duty called…   
He knocked on the door.

After a long moment, the door opened— and it was just as well that Dumbledore had expected a less-than-lukewarm welcome, because Petunia Dursley immediately did her level best to slam it in his face. "You!" she screamed, when Albus pried it open nevertheless. "What are  _ you  _ doing here?!"

"Petunia?" came a call from another room. Petunia and Albus both ignored it.  
"I have come to check on the boy," Albus kept his voice calm. It would do no good, he had long ago learned, to yell at Petunia if he wanted results.  
"What boy?" she demanded. "My Duddikins isn't one of you! I _checked_!"  
"Not Dudley, Petunia. Harry— wait, what? You checked? How?" Petunia _hated_ magic, but she would have had to willingly contact another wizard to test for it in her own child, and that went against everything he knew about her.  
"I do know the way to Diagon Alley, I'm not stupid. It’s not like I ever got rid of that Anti-Anti-Muggle charm from Lily’s school days, that thing you gave us so me and our parents could actually _see_ the place instead of walking right past it like all the other non-magic folk. Got a gadget that checks for uncontrolled magic at Scribullus years ago." Petunia folded her arms, still not budging from the doorway. "Who's Harry?"

Albus's mind went blank.

"Harry is your sister's child," he managed. "You and your, ah, husband adopted him seven years ago after Lily and James were killed."   
"My sister Lily," Petunia raised a dubious eyebrow, "who was murdered by those freaks she insisted on standing up for above and beyond her own sister, and who adamantly refused to bring a child into the world with everything in such a dreadful state? She never had a child. Or if she did, I suppose, she never told me— but then, she hadn't spoken to me since moving into James, so I suppose I didn't exactly rank very high on her list of priorities. Nobody even bothered to inform me when she died!"   
Was it just him, or was a little of the bitterness gone from Petunia's voice?   
Nevertheless, Albus pressed on. This couldn’t have been a trick. Petunia had never been precisely happy to have the Boy-Who-Lived deposited on her doorstep, but she had at least never wanted him dead, as would have been the result of placing him in the foster system.    
Well, there was one way to verify. Albus didn't bother asking Petunia, simply caught her gaze and filled his mind with intent.  _ Legilimens. _

She was not playing a trick.

Albus swallowed. As far as he could tell, Petunia Dursley legitimately hadn't the slightest memory of her sister ever having a child. There were traces, there, of an Obliviation— but it must have been a very skilled one, to have so seamlessly mended the gap in her memories. Perhaps whoever it was would not have thought to go through their possessions?   
Absently, he spoke. "I am coming inside now."

As always, Petunia tried to block him. As always, he simply Apparated into her kitchen instead. Unlike usual, however, he had no time to insist on tea and some semblance of manners being exchanged, and instead marched directly to the living room. Petunia's boar of a husband lounged on the couch. He started at the wizard's sudden and extraordinary appearance, and the beginning of his red-faced outburst was pacified by Petunia's immediate, resentful excuses. Albus would never understand what she saw in the man— but then, he was hardly one to talk, having fallen in love with the most evil wizard of his generation. At least Vernon only spouted a more petty, everyday kind of evil. He ignored the Muggle, and focused instead on the family photos adorning the mantle.   
No sign of the boy. Whoever Obliviated Petunia had done their due diligence, and judging by the angry confusion on Vernon's face when Petunia explained, they must have gotten him and Dudley as well. Unsurprising, for work as skillful as this. This could not possibly have been an accident.   
Albus decided to switch tactics.

There would be no point in attempting to restore the Dursley's memories unless he could find the boy, even if he actually succeeded in restoring them. Rather, he was now searching for something, anything, which had belonged to Harry. That would make it much easier to track the boy, especially if he got something with blood, hair, or the like on it. Old magic, that, the kind wizards often ignored. Dumbledore rummaged through everything he could find— laundry, toys, dishes, even glancing into a cupboard under the stairs, full of extra blankets and cleaning equipment.   
It was there that he found it: a grubby tartan baby blanket, in a faded white with blue and red stripes, achingly familiar to Albus's eyes. He remembered that blanket from years ago, recalled finding baby Harry in the silent wreck of his former home, safe in the shelter of the crib that had once held James Potter as a child. That blanket had been there, slightly singed but otherwise unharmed. And he'd picked up the infant as gently as he could with hands that still trembled in grief, and wrapped him up in that very blanket, gazed into those familiar eyes. Harry wasn't even crying anymore, by the time he got there. Albus had taken him outside the devastation of the ruined house, sheltered him from the October chill as best he could, a little warm bundle of hope in the night. Apparated to Poppy's doorstep. Poppy had taken one look at baby Harry, he recalled, and known exactly who it was. Her face had been stricken, but she took the baby without a word and shut the door in his face. It had taken weeks, after that, before Madame Pomfrey would say more than two words to him, so great was her grief.    
That was part of why he'd asked Hagrid to pick Harry up, later, to drop the boy off at Privet Drive. Anything to avoid the guilt of speaking to the woman who'd cared for the survivors of so many of his own mistakes, little Harry included. 

Albus sighed.    
She, too, had been dubious about sending Harry to live with his aunt and uncle. Perhaps she'd had the better judgement. But Poppy had wrapped the baby lovingly back up in his blanket anyway, and given him to Hagrid to return to Dumbledore's care, Albus who had so drastically failed the baby's parents.

He pressed the blanket to his face.   
It still smelled faintly of smoke and magic, even after all these years.

Albus turned to find Petunia hovering at his elbow, looking marginally less unpleasant than expected, given the situation at hand. "Do you recall anything about this blanket?" his voice was soft.   
Petunia glared. "No. It belonged to my freak of a sister, I think. Forgot it was even there."   
"That it did," Dumbledore murmured, "once upon a time." He glanced over at the woman. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to borrow it, for the time being. Thank you for your hospitality."   
Vernon Dursley was in line of sight, so Albus refrained from Apparating away. After Petunia's marriage, one of the most important conditions of the pitiful excuse of an arrangement he and Petunia had come to was to never introduce her husband or child to magic. He couldn't fault her for that much: Petunia had truly loved her sister, once upon a time, and it was magic which ripped Lily from her grasp.   
Before long, he was out the door anyway, baby blanket in hand. 

Where to next? 

" _ Appare vestigium! _ " A sparkling golden mist poured from his wand, curling into the air.   
As he focused on Harry, the mist swirled around the blanket for a moment, but soon it continued outwards, flooding the air, until the entire area within a good three meters of him was flooded in gold. "Come on," Albus whispered. "Show me Harry."   
The dust produced by the spell was transfigured from the air. Utterly harmless to living things, it tended to cluster around magical energy and life energy alike, and maintained an impression of the magic which touched it. It was a common tracking spell. But in this instance—  _ Merlin's beard! _

Four trails of glitter had left the house in the morning: two dim, one bright, and one in between, presumably standing in for Vernon and Dudley, Harry, and Petunia, respectively. Simple enough. But there should be a return trail as well for each person who had entered the house, and  _ none  _ of the four had one. If the spell was to be believed, only  _ one person  _ had both entered and left the property through the door in the last day, not including Albus himself.

Or, not exactly a person.

What it was, Albus wasn't sure, except that it left so much magical residue behind that the dust of its trail could light up a room! When he touched it with his wand, the impression it had left behind was massive and changing, with no distinct shape that Albus could make out—was there a lion head in there somewhere, and an eagle? And wings, and rings, and eyes, and— his forehead throbbed, and Albus banished the impression hastily. Looking at it, apparently, would not do for long.

He let out a shaky breath.

He would have to write Mr. Scamander, after sorting this out. Perhaps the magizoologist would be able to recognize it. In the meantime, he would continue following Harry's trail, sorting through possibilities in his mind. If the boy were truly out of the picture, he would have to drastically adjust his strategy. Not to mention his concern for Harry’s own wellbeing...   
And so Albus Dumbledore walked along the shimmering trail of the Boy Who Lived, and prayed that he was safe. 


	5. ...will someday be found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley deals with some uninvited visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 5/22/2020-- again, we've gotten a much better handle on Dumbledore since the original posting and wanted to rewrite this bit for consistency

It was honestly rather entertaining to watch.

These wizards, or whatever they called themselves, seemed to have no idea how to blend in in normal society. Crowley could pick them out by their clothes as easy as breathing— a large black man in a blue and violet agbada that would not have looked out of place in some formal gathering in western Africa was the one who blended in the best, looking more like a recent immigrant than anything uncanny. He approached the Soho entrance before any of the others were in sight, a wand in one hand, an amulet on the end of a chain in the other, collecting no small number of stares from the passers-by. He approached the shop with growing confidence, the amulet swinging in a steady back and forth until—

He reached the property line.

And the amulet went still.

The man poked it with his wand, muttering something Crowley couldn't quite hear. The amulet started to smoke. He put it away, then, looking about with that wand plainly at the ready, until his eyes settled on the bookshop. Crowley smirked. Aziraphale had set up the perception field around it himself after a bout of paranormalists insisted on making nuisances of themselves. And sure enough, after a moment's thought the man shook his head and wandered off, no doubt to search the rest of the street for the kid currently munching on a biscuit in the bookshop.

Right about as the first one left, the shop door dinged and Crowley found herself whisked away to the South Downs entrance.

It wasn't the clothes, so much, that made this one stand out. It was the movement.

Crowley could have sworn she'd seen this man before, in fact, during World War II— scarred and dour face, a limping gait, eyes that darted everywhere at once, particularly the pale blue prosthetic eye that filled his left socket. That wand, of course, in one hand with that peculiar grip of his, and a great, gnarled staff in the other that stank of magic on her tongue. His wild blond hair was rather more wild and less hairy than she remembered, but otherwise he appeared to be pretty much unchanged.

"'Scuse me," the man did not sound apologetic in the least when Crowley answered the door, his words gruff and rapid-fire. "Have you seen a kid around here? Small, Indian descent, lightning bolt scar on his forehead? He'd be about eight by now?"

"I'm afraid not," she answered lazily. Something told Crowley it would not do to let this man investigate too closely, so she leaned across the doorway as she spoke, tongue flickering just a little from her mouth.

Oh, how  _ cute!  _ The man was trying to read her mind, his one organic eye fixed on her own. It had been a while since Crowley had dealt with attempts at Legilimency, but she certainly hadn't lost the mental discipline needed to block it out. Or, not block it out, precisely. She didn't want the man to become any more suspicious than he already was, despite the way he tried to hack through her mind for information. Instead, Crowley did more-or-less what she'd learned to do against her former bosses, if with a different set of memories, and focused on the purely mundane details of life with Aziraphale: having tea or cocoa at a café, going out for crêpes. The small-suburban drama of the South Downs, watering her plants. Just enough detail and conflict that it wouldn't appear obviously fabricated, while not containing anything of interest to the wizard. 

She may be a little out of practice, but Hell had never been much of one for privacy or sanctity of the mind, and her hard-earned skill at the subtler side of Occlumency had kept her out of the pits for thousands of years.

After a long moment, the wizard grunted. "Fine. He's gotta be around here somewhere."

Crowley was honestly surprised when he turned and limped off to the next door down without even trying to  _ Obliviate _ her of the conversation.

The last was not quite as obvious: an older woman dressed in green, staring at something on the tip of her wand and muttering to it. When she got within a few meters of the shop, it must have failed, because she glowered at it so hard it should have burst into flames. After looking around for a moment, she turned and left— and a few minutes later, a grey tabby cat stalked down the street.

"I could smell him, I swear!" Crowley overheard the woman's conversation an hour or so later, after the cat had left. "But I can only get so far, and then the scent just… disappears!"

The man she was speaking to was dressed in hot pink and yellow robes, the pointed hat on his head marking him plainly as a wizard even without the knee-length silver hair and beard. Even more obviously, to Crowley's eyes, he was surrounded with a golden mist that clustered around the two mages. Was he… tracking Harry? 

"I understand," the man said grimly. "You tried your best. But this… these are some serious wards, they must be obscuring the scent. Might it perhaps be around here that the trail disappeared?" he gestured toward the bookshop, and the dust swirled toward it as well, clustering in a globe about the shop.

_ Bugger,  _ Crowley thought.  _ That's bound to be suspicious. The wards don't let unauthorized magic in except through the door, and that golden dust stuff must be magic.  _ She might actually have to intervene.

Sure enough, before long, the pair of mages were knocking at the door.

Crowley sighed. May as well get this over with, she supposed. "What?" She opened the door with a glare.

The old man wasted no time. "Where is Harry Potter? " he demanded, and though his tone was civil and his wand lowered, she immediately knew that this was not a man to mess with.

She didn't like rummaging in people's minds unnecessarily. But here, what else was she supposed to do? So Crowley smiled pleasantly. Then she murmured a sentence in the wizard’s ear, voice quiet, as if she had all the time in the world. "Why don't you ask your Mr. Scamander whose trail you picked up, first? You can always knock again later.” She closed the door politely, but firmly, and then immediately pressed her eye to the peephole.

The woman in green frowned, and after some discussion they sent off a Patronus to Scamander. While they were distracted, Crowley took the liberty of blurring a few of their memories— her face, where they were, all the specifics. By the time they received a response, surprisingly quickly, all things considered, the message his Patronus carried was enough to get them to leave:  _ " _ It's an  _ akero.  _ Whatever you're looking for, it's a lost cause. Get out of there."

The old man looked at the woman in green.

The woman in green looked back at him.

_ Crack! _

They disappeared.

* * *

"You can't possibly be suggesting that we just  _ give up!"  _ Minerva exclaimed. They had Apparated back to Hogsmeade, to meet back up with Moody and Shacklebolt long enough to decide on a new course of action and see what the others had learned. Scamander had Apparated in unprompted less than ten minutes later.

"That's  _ exactly  _ what I'm suggesting," the old magizoologist retorted, brushing a white curl from his face with hands that had just begun to tremble from age. "You don't know what these things are capable of."

“I do know that we don't remember nearly as much of that encounter as we should, and I did not sense a spell at work," Albus's voice was grave. "Both of which I find alarming in the extreme, as I know of no witch or wizard in Britain capable of modifying the memories of this party without our knowledge, particularly myself and Alastor. Nevertheless, securing Harry Potter is of utmost importance, Mr. Scamander. We cannot abandon it simply because of the presence of a creature we do not know how to defeat—"

"No." Scamander interrupted. "Absolutely not. Go after this  _ akero  _ if you insist, Headmaster, but that will not change Harry's fate, and trying to interfere with it will only put you in greater danger.  _ Please,  _ Dumbledore. I am the only known wizard alive to have had contact with one of these things, I know what I'm talking about. These beings are beyond human comprehension. The fact of the matter is, if it's an  _ akero  _ that took the child, it is out of our hands."

There was silence for a moment as the man took a breath.

"We don't know what happened. And if the  _ akero  _ in question knows what it's doing — of course it knows what it’s doing! by its very nature it must — we have no possible  _ way  _ of knowing what happened. Harry Potter may be dead. He may be safer than he's ever been in his life! Either way, whatever happened has already come to pass, and there's nothing we can do about it now." The old man caught Albus's gaze with every bit of steel he could muster. "Believe me," he said, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "Harry Potter is as good as gone."


	6. Summer Days

The shop door creaked as Harry slipped back into the house, covered in mud. Zira peered over his glasses. 

"Please do take your shoes off, Harry," he commented with a smile.  
"Yes, Mister Fell," he said quietly. When Zira frowned, he corrected himself. "Zira." The bookshop owner smiled again, and Harry crouched down to take off his shoes. That task done, he headed upstairs. Once he reached the top step, he froze. Something smelled _wonderful_. It smelled… hot, and smoky, and utterly foreign, but he couldn't shake the faint feeling of familiarity.

He followed his nose. Crowley was in the kitchen again, wearing the same black apron. He was stirring something vigorously in a big pan, the familiar crackling sound of hot oil sizzling every time he stirred.  
"Harry!" he exclaimed, not turning around. "Good timing! Mind stirring this around for a bit while I grab a few things?"  
"Uhh." Harry approached the stove cautiously. He peered into the pan. "Onions?" They were a strange dark orange colour, and they smelled fantastic.  
"Yup! Just keep stirring them, I need to rummage around in the spice cupboard for a minute."  
"Okay," he said dubiously. He stirred them around for a bit, flinching when a droplet of oil jumped up. "Why're they orange?"  
"Oh, that's probably the cardamom and paprika," Crowley replied. "The cloves and cinnamon might have something to do with it, too. Don't worry, it'll get brighter in a second once I find the chili paste."  
Crowley came back to the stove, setting several things on the counter next to it. He tossed a spoonful of what smelled like minced garlic and ginger in, then took the wooden spatula back from Harry, resuming his stirring.  
"What're you making?" Harry asked, still staring.  
"Biryani," Crowley replied with a grin. "Learned to make it from an old friend of mine in Chennai, back when I lived in India."  
Harry blinked. He hadn't really realized before now that Crowley was about as brown as he was. "Wait, you're Indian?"  
Crowley laughed. "Nah. I just lived there for a while. Miss the food, you really can't get anything like it in London. There are some good Indian restaurants, but restaurant food and home-cooked food are very different."

Harry fell silent. With the Dursleys, he'd never eaten anything but "good, solid English food". He'd never dared ask anything about his father's heritage — his aunt and uncle only ever talked about his father in scornful tones. _I never understood what she saw in that man,_ Petunia would declare shrilly. _Not our kind of people,_ Vernon would grumble _. The wrong kind of people_ , Petunia would say. _You better not turn out like them, boy_ , Vernon would warn him _. If you come home smelling like curry I'll toss you out myself,_ he said once, chuckling at his own joke.

Harry had never even _had_ curry. "Aunt Petunia says that eating brown people food will make me darker," he whispered.  
Crowley froze. He moved the pan onto a different burner, then crouched down in front of Harry, meeting his eyes. "That, Harry, iss a _horrible_ thing for her to sssay."  
He reached out to touch Harry's shoulder, golden eyes staring fiercely into his. "Lisssten to me. There'ss nothing wrong with being brown, and eating certain foods won't make you darker. They're just awful, ignorant white people."  
Harry met Crowley's eyes, feeling overwhelmed. He looked down.  
"If I really wanted to look white, I could," Crowley said, standing up. "But I don't. I’ve looked like this for a long, long time, and I don’t want to change just because some people decided to be horrible about it. Now, do you want to learn to make a kickass biryani?"

* * *

The rest of summer drifted by lazily. At first, Harry spent his days in the bookshop, reading through Zira's entire children's book section and hiding whenever someone came into the shop. As he grew a little more comfortable, he started going outside, enacting elaborate adventures in his head and exploring all the nooks and crannies of the garden. Once he realized he wasn't going to be bullied, he started talking to some of the other children who came to the shop. They were as suspicious of other kids as he was, though, so the best he could usually manage was friendly recognition. And even if he’d managed to make friends with anyone, it’s not like he could have talked to them about magic, or shown them all his favorite places in the garden. Besides, he could keep himself entertained well enough on his own.

It was mid-August when things changed. Zira was sitting at his desk, while Harry had settled down in a corner with a comic book. Zira closed his book with a sigh and peered over his glasses at Harry.  
"So, where do you want to go to school?" he asked.  
Harry looked up, startled. His heart sank. School? He didn't want to go to school. All he remembered from school was being bullied by Dursley and ignored by everyone else. "Do I have to go to school?" He tried not to sound too whiny about it.  
Zira frowned. "Yes, it's very important. We can't teach you everything you need to know, and it's important for you to interact with other children."  
"I talk to Roshana and Alex,” Harry protested, naming two of the kids who would hang out with him sometimes when they visited the bookstore.  
Zira raised an eyebrow. "Yes, but those aren't exactly ordinary children. Now, would you rather go to school in Wraysbury or the South Downs? In theory you could go to school in Soho, but as it's not exactly a residential area that might prove a bit more difficult."  
"I don't want to go to school," he muttered.  
Zira pursed his lips. "You don't want to be behind when you get to wizard school, do you?"  
Harry's eyes widened. "No!"  
"So, you'll have to study hard," he said, smiling. "I won't be able to teach you everything, certainly not in the way you'd learn it in school. So, Wraysbury or South Downs?"  
Harry thought for a moment. In the South Downs he'd have to take the bus, probably, everything was so spread out. But in Wraysbury he might run into the Dursleys. And besides, it wasn't like he had friends at his old school to go back to. "South Downs," he decided. No matter how awful school was, he knew that at least school near Devil’s Dyke in the South Downs would be improved by the lack of Dudley Dursley. 

School wasn't so bad, Harry learned.  
It started out rough, of course, joining a classroom full of strangers. But without Dudley around, the older kids mostly just ignored him by default instead of thinking of him as a punching bag. And his teacher that year was… nice. Calm. Crowley and Zira had come to introduce him in person, the first day of school, and a few murmured words with Miss Eaton had her shooting sympathetic glances Harry's way almost immediately.  
She spent extra time with Harry, those first few weeks of school, trying to help him with his reading. It was hard because the words were always blurry, and he couldn't see the board very well unless he was right at the front of the class. Eventually, Miss Eaton suggested _glasses._ The thought of going to the doctor to get glasses was almost as scary as going to school that first day had been.

"You really might want to consider at _least_ getting him checked out," Miss Eaton fiddled with a twist of her hair. She was clearly still a little uncomfortable in Crowley's presence, but kept talking regardless. "He's mostly learned to read, but it's a tough thing, you know. When I asked, he said he couldn't even make out things like the animals on the wall. And he's always squinting, and I just-- I'm worried he's not going to learn anything, if he can't see it."

His godfathers exchanged a long, somewhat tense look-- and then Crowley drew in a breath, a strange expression on his face. "Angel--" he stopped. "Angel, we haven't taken him to a doctor yet, have we?"  
"Well, no." Aziraphale frowned. "Harry's only been with us for a couple months, and I don't know what a doctor could do for him that we can't."  
"And… when you stopped by the Dursleys, I don't suppose you happened to find Harry's medical records?"  
"Medical-- oh, dear." It was Zira's turn to look discombobulated. "Does it really matter?"

That was strange enough that the teacher interjected again. "You don't even have the boy's _medical records?!"_ Her eyes widened. 

"Er-- no, as a matter of fact. They’re missing." Zira offered a tight little smile. He hadn't exactly meant for Miss Eaton to hear that, even if she was nice to Harry. She was only a human teacher, after all. "Harry's previous family, as we already mentioned, was less than ideal. Frankly, I would not be surprised if they never took Harry to the doctor in the first place. I only even learned his birthday because _Harry_ remembered what it was, and had a spot of panic over the fact. Excuse us."  
At that, Zira gripped Crowley's hand and strode out. He wasn’t worried. Why would he be worried? This was only a human thing, these doctors, a human thing Aziraphale knew next to nothing about. And Harry was safe at school now, where he couldn’t see the anxiety scrawled all over his godfather’s face. They'd only taken him to class themselves today because Harry had slept in late and missed the bus.

" _Glasses?_ What are we supposed to do about that?" Zira's hands wove themselves together in front of him, clenching and unclenching seemingly at random. "Medical records?"  
"I hadn't remembered." Crowley frowned. "Humans have all these records nowadays. And shots they're supposed to take to protect them against illness, or something like that, and citizenship papers, and all that sort of thing. She's right, we really ought to get that checked out-- we can miracle him better from just about any injury, and most illnesses, but what if we're not there? What about once he's all grown up, if he doesn't have anti-whatsits to human diseases?"

"We can.…pop in, from time to time, to check on him." Aziraphale's eyes were anxious on his own.

"If he lets us."

"Mm. Still. If Harry's gonna be a real person someday, with a legal presence and everything-- there's bound to be paperwork to sort out, right?"

The angel let out a sigh. "Paperwork.  
"I _hate_ paperwork." Crowley's voice was gone from nervous to glum. "Inflicting it on other people is one thing, but I _really_ hate doing it myself. The tortured souls don't even know how well they dodged the bullet on that one, they only have to fill out a couple dozen forms when they first arrive, lucky sods. After that-- at least the rest of their existence gets to be exciting."  
"Hmf." Aziraphale sniffed. "Unfortunately, I don't think either of us know exactly what papers we'll need. How often are humans supposed to, to go to the doctor anyway?" The closest estimate he could think of was _more than once a lifetime,_ and that didn't sound right.

"You'd need to ask a human. And not Miss Eaton either, she'd probably call Child Services on us, and we promised Harry he'd be safe." Crowley fidgeted, arms crossed over his chest.  
"Humans."

  
After a long moment, Aziraphale perked up. "Oh! Do you recall that girl you hit with your car, back during-- well, you know?"

That took him a minute. "The girl-- oi! She hit my car with her bike, excuse you!" But Crowley was smiling again. It was enough to make Zira feel all melty inside, just looking at him. "The one whose book you stole?"  
"Her, yes." Zira pursed his lips. "I didn't really steal it, you know. Merely… borrowed it."  
"I don't recall you ever giving it back," Crowley said, and his voice was dryer than the depths of the desert.  
"I would have!" he protested. "I really would have, only we were all so busy, and then we weren't, and I heard she _burned_ the sequel, and-- and I couldn't possibly leave such a precious creation in the hands of, of a _book-burner._ But that's beside the point," Aziraphale glared, but his heart wasn't in it. "The _point_ is that anyone from Agnes Nutter's line must be at least associated with the magical community. But clearly she also interacts with the rest of the world. Don't you see?"

"See what?"  
"Book Girl can tell us what sorts of paperwork we'll need!" Aziraphale couldn't help the grin from spreading across his face. "She's human. She must know often young humans are supposed to go to the doctor, and how to set up an appointment, and all that. And most likely, she'll also be able to tell us how that differs from however the magical community does things!"

Crowley stared. And then, slowly, "That does make a certain amount of sense."

"Excellent! Let's go right away then, shall we?" Aziraphale knew it was his enthusiasm that pushed the chuckle out of his partner. That was alright. They settled down in the car, and Aziraphale placed his hand on top of Crowley's with a whisper like a migrating bird finally come to rest, and braced himself for the no-doubt-terrifying drive back to Lower Tadfield.

* * *

Anathema knew something powerful was approaching before she even heard the knock on the door.

She could feel it-- two auras, one inhumanly bright and burning, the other like a black hole in vaguely human shape, half-collapsed in on itself already. She adjusted her spectacles on her face, taking the time as she did to force her eyesight back into the purely human realm. Looking at anything with an aura that intense would be bound to be asking for trouble, even if they did both feel vaguely familiar.

The knock came.  
Anathema sighed. She wasn't sure if she ought to answer it, to be honest, but -- well, they felt familiar. And she was a witch. She was supposed to be curious. So instead of pretending she wasn't home, Anathema snatched her bread knife from the kitchen and answered the door. 

"Book girl!"

Anathema froze in her tracks. Scrawny, brown skin, fancy silk shirt and sunglasses-- and the other, big and round with white-blond hair and clothes that looked like they should have been in a museum-- "You're the couple who ran over my bike!" It was all she could think of to say.  
The bread knife, on the other hand, was much more expressive, rising without conscious intervention to separate her from the eldritch beings before her. How did she not _notice_ before? Had she been so preoccupied with Armageddon that she didn't even spot these, these, these _creatures_ for whatever they were? "You were at the air base. What were you doing at the air base?!"

"What were _you_ doing at the air base?" the scrawny one retorted. "Anyway. That's not why we're here. You're human, right?"  
"Crowley!" the round one squawked. "You can't just _ask_ whether she's human!"  
"You said she's a witch!" Crowley must be the scrawny one. "Witches know about supernatural beings. As a whole."

"Uh--" Anathema interrupted. "I'm an occultist, actually. What are you doing here?" She brandished the knife vaguely, not quite sure why she felt so… unthreatened in their presence, but she was still unwilling to give up her slight advantage. A weapon made _her_ feel safer, at least.

The round one pushed forward a little. "Hello, dear." He smiled, and Anathema knew to the depths of her soul that here was the kindest man in the world, standing in well-worn old clothing and eyes as vast as the sky.  
She was not prepared to have those eyes on her, looking at her, _seeing_ her. A part of her wanted to coil up tight and small, to hide away, avoid all the kindness those eyes pushed at her. Another part of her wanted to rear up and hiss, to say _how dare you_ , and _I don't want your help_ , and to bite the hand that feeds.

Anathema smiled her blandest, most polite smile, and lowered the knife.

“I am Aziraphale, and this is my friend Crowley." He ignored the snort from his compatriot. "As you may have gathered, we're not exactly-- um. Well, you see--"  
"You aren't human." Odd, that calm deep in her belly, even when she was shaken to her core by the intensity of his gaze.

"Precisely," Aziraphale said gratefully. "And we have-- we have a few questions," his hands fidgeted at his chest, "about modern humans, you know. It's been quite some time since we've had to deal with the logistics of it all, and we were, we were wondering if you would be so kind as to give us some advice. That's all. We, ah, we mean you and your friends no harm, of course."  
"Of course."  
She raised her eyebrows. After a few seconds of silence, Anathema sighed. This was getting nowhere, and there was no way she could out-stare whatever these creatures were. She let her eyesight slip just lightly into its normal mode, just enough that she could see auras overlaid atop the real world if she searched.

She didn't have to search. The round one's aura was so vast and bright she couldn't look directly at it. From the edges she caught an impression of wings, and eyes, and something that might have been a lion. The other's… it was not quite the black hole it looked like from far away. It had that same hunger, yes, that same aspect of being the inverse of _big_ and _bright--_ but the longer she looked, the more definition she found.

"Please," the bright one whispered. "I don't know where else to go. We cannot let him be taken away from us, we promised."

A curl of bright slipped out from Aziraphale's aura as she watched, twining itself with the beautiful darkness beside it-- and impossibly, the light was not consumed by blackness. Tendrils of dark worked their way across, and tendrils of light followed from the other side, until those two auras stood clasped in what Anathema could only term as an _embrace._

She couldn't help it. She stared.

"Er.…"

The dark one moved, and she heard the words as if from far away. "I think she's peeking, angel." The tone was mild. She knew it was, she could _see it_ in the restless shifting of that aura, hear it in the whisper of dry scales on the leaves and sunlight on skin.

Anathema shook herself back to reality. She glanced down almost in a panic, and saw-- _really? Clasped hands? They look close as a couple of forty years on date night, and all it took was holding hands?!_ Slowly, she let out a breath. _Right. So these are two eldritch beings with power that would blind me to look at for long, but who are sappily in love_ . As she tried not to look, another tendril of light wrapped around the darkness, its edges only softened by the shadow. _Incredibly sappily._

"You know what?" she said at last.  
Slowly, her eyes slipped back into reality, and it was a relief not to feel the pressure of the two giants before her. "Why not?" Nothing that adorably in love could be evil, right? Besides, Anathema had a fair amount of faith in her wards, now that the Antichrist himself had reinforced them. "Why don't I make you both some coffee? Tell me what you want to know."

"Didn't you have a young man, last time?" Aziraphale asked as they wandered inside.

"What? Oh, right," Anathema said absently as she bustled about with the coffee-maker. "Turns out we weren't all that compatible, really." _And we both had an awful lot of self-discovery,_ she thought ruefully. "We're still very good friends, of course." That had, after all, been a rather formative time in both of their lives. "My, uh, friend goes by Margaret now, or Maggie for short," she added, as a test.

Aziraphale positively beamed. "Oh, how lovely!"  
Crowley nodded approvingly. "Good for her."

She smiled. "Now, what was it you wanted to know?"

In the end, Anathema (somewhat regretfully) agreed to stay in contact.

The partners had adopted a _child_ after all. An actual, human child, less than ten years old. And while Anathema agreed that practically anything Aziraphale and Crowley did to raise him would probably be better than the awful, clearly abusive household they'd rescued the poor kid from, she still wasn't entirely comfortable leaving a _human child_ in the hands of a couple of _eldritch abominations from the dawn of time._ No matter how adorably smitten they were with each other. She'd arranged to come over to the bright one's bookshop, next week, for tea but also to meet little Harry, and check on him.

In the meantime-- both godparents now had the number to her landline, if they needed advice. She'd gone over all the basic paperwork with them too, and what it was for: ID cards, the importance of keeping track of Harry's medical records, how to set him up with the NHS so he could actually see a doctor easily. She even, cautiously, broached the subject of adoption papers, seeing as there seemed to be no official collaboration with the government in their... sudden adoption (or was it technically kidnapping?). Not that Crowley or Aziraphale looked very worried about that. Unfortunately, it looked like the Dursleys hadn't bothered to get Harry any of his shots since his actual parents died-- but on the other hand, at least it would be relatively easy to find his family's medical history, what with James and Lily Potter being James and Lily Potter.

Oh yeah.

That, if anything, was the hardest to digest: the kid was _Harry Potter._ _  
_The actual, real Harry Potter, who got hit with a Killing Curse and lived to tell the tale. Certainly Anathema didn't revere him half as much as any of the local witches and wizards would; she was from America, after all. But it was still… incredibly jarring, to say the least, walking into a bookstore a week later to see _Harry freaking Potter._ To imagine Harry Potter locked in a cupboard by some Muggles, Harry Potter showing up like a half-drowned kitten on Aziraphale's doorstep. She tried not to let the kid notice how it weirded her out, and let herself just be amazed at the way Harry's change of circumstances _still_ hadn't leaked out to the general public.

Instead, Anathema kept her goggling to a minimum and her practicality turned up to the max.

And when the brand-new godparents asked if she wanted to keep meeting with Harry, her answer was an emphatic _yes._


	7. This Little Light of Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay before posting this chapter! We forgot about it lol

_ Focus. _ _   
_ _ Clear your mind of everything but the light, for this, alright? _

__ Harry had been staring at the pair of electrodes on the table for over an hour, at this point. He should probably give it a rest soon, but— well, he'd finally gotten it to  _ smoke,  _ just a little, and that meant he had to be close!   
_ You have everything you need inside you. It doesn't take much to start it, really, just a spark. You're making light,  _ Crowley had murmured,  _ so think about light. Energy. In the, the literal, scientific sense, the stuff that makes things go. And there'll be a little bitty part of you that knows what it's doing, and if you just follow that— actually,  _ she'd changed her mind,  _ there's an easier way to get the feeling. You know if you come over here and you stand in the doorway to the shop, you eventually get that weird sorta tingly feeling? You're looking for that. Take that, and shove it up your arms into something you're touching, that'll be the easiest way. Just on one side. It's the  _ difference  _ in energy that makes electricity work. _ _   
_ __ So Harry kept his fingers wrapped around the base of one electrode, and thought about light. He'd been working on this for  _ days  _ already, but hadn't quite managed to get a spark.

There.   
__ He found it! Maybe? A sort of staticky humming in the back of his head, and he thought that was right. He'd felt it a few times by now, but only gotten it to move about halfway down his arm before losing track. Harry let out a slow, carefully even breath. If he breathed too hard, it would slip away.  _ Come on, come on… _

_ Flash! _ _   
_ __ "YES!" Harry grinned. That was a spark alright, wasn't it? I mean he'd lost the feeling almost immediately, but he  _ definitely  _ caused a spark to jump between the two electrodes, he saw it! He did— he did MAGIC! "Crowley! Zira! Zira, it worked, I did magic!"

__ "So you did," Crowley grinned from where she lounged in the doorway. How long had she been there? Her dark hair was longer today, and distinctly red at the ends, braided in a messy fishtail down her neck and contrasting with the black of her button-up. "I felt it, snakelet, you did a wonderful job!" She pulled him in for a brief hug, chuckling when Harry continued to bounce in his seat. "You're a real wizard now!" Crowley was  _ full  _ of the staticky magic feeling, he could feel that much now easily. She was practically humming with it, and Zira was about the same.   
"Can you teach me how to turn into a snake now?" he asked with such an eager look on his face that Crowley stifled a laugh.   
__ "No, love, not yet. You have to go to  _ school  _ first, for magic. Aziraphale won't let me teach you until you do, because it's dangerous, even with the help of an expert like me." She mussed his hair up with one hand, and Harry giggled. "But I'll teach you just as soon as Zira gives the okay!"   
"I guess…"   
__ "You just keep practicing!" Crowley smiled. "Pretty soon you'll be able to move up to lighting candles, and all that. In the meantime, let me know when you're done, we can watch some of that new Star Trek show coming out in the Americas. The Next Generation. Or would you rather Doctor Who?"   
That returned the enthusiasm to Harry's face. "Star Trek! But I bet you won't even be able to get the telly going without Zira to help you!"   
__ Crowley rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "It's not my fault it always breaks if I get too annoyed with it! But  _ I  _ bet you can turn it on without my help just fine, anyway. In fact, you can probably do it without the remote pretty soon, if you concentrate. It's still just energy."

__ Harry paused for a moment, his face screwed up in thought. "Still. Why is it that I have to try  _ so hard  _ to do even a little bit of magic on purpose," he asked, "when every time  _ accidental  _ magic happens, it's always something bigger? That shouldn't be right, should it?"   
__ "It is a little counterintuitive," Crowley admitted. "But it's been true for every human I've taught." She sprawled out on the sofa in front of their somewhat antiquated television, propping herself up on the cushions. "Y'see," she began to explain, "your body knows how to do all this stuff already. But right now it's like digesting food, or making your heart beat— it just happens automatically, all on its own!"

Harry bounded over to the telly, rummaging for the tape where they'd recorded the new episode when it aired. The timing was always really inconvenient, being from all the way in the Americas.   
__ "What you're doing  _ now _ is figuring out how to use it consciously. And because you can only really get a grip on little bits of your magic at a time, you have to start with  _ little _ things, things where you don't really change much about the energy in whatever you're working with, because you can't just shove power down the universe's throat like you do accidentally. It gets easier with practice." She pursed her lips. "Also, with tools. Human mages usually use tools, once they get a little older. Wands and stuff. Makes it easier to direct, and they usually pull out the power automatically. Which is great cause it's easy, but not so great because you still aren't actually in  _ control  _ of your magic, you're just in control of the tool. Lose the tool, lose access to your magic. And you can't do anything the tool isn't built to be able to do that way, either, whereas if you know how to do it without a  _ thing  _ to pull your magic out for you, that just makes you even  _ better _ when you get to wands and the like, even though you don't need them."

Crowley did her best to keep the faint frown from her face.   
__ Harry didn't question the way she insisted on  _ humans,  _ he never did _.  _ It itched at her, that incurious acceptance. But then, Harry knowing what they were would make things so much more complicated, and she didn't want to lie. It was better this way. Crowley sprawled herself out on the couch, leaving a little room on the end for Harry. It just… bugged her.   
"This one's called Datalore," Harry read. "Huh." And then he was up and moving as the intro sequence began, snuggling up against her side. "I hope we get to learn more about Data."   
__ "Me, too." She grinned, and brushed a lock of hair out of her godson's face with a gentle finger. "I think Data's my favorite."    
And so they settled in to watch. 


	8. Yer A Wizard, Harry!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry we missed a week! We were doing a big round of edits at the time :)

_ July 1991, _ _   
_ _ 3 years after the second adoption of Harry Potter.  _

Minerva McGonagall approached the Hogwarts Book of Admittance with trepidation.   
Not that she was nervous, of course. She had done this duty every year for decades already, and knew perfectly well what it entailed. And the Book seemed to like her fairly well, given the way it only occasionally strained against its chains in her presence, and had only tried to bite her twice; it was just… unnerving.

Minerva set out her work station first.

A stack of stationary and another of envelopes, quite certainly more of both than she would need. An ancient self-inking quill, and her preferred bright emerald ink, with an extra bottle just in case. It would not do to be interrupted.   
She took a deep breath. Released it.

The Book of Admittance would not harm her, she knew perfectly well. As a magical book, as an  _ old  _ magical book which had resided in an extremely magical castle for hundreds of years, it was dangerous; but at least with her it would keep itself in line.   
Minerva's hands were steady when she finally came up to the Book itself. It was whispering, already. Why did it always start with the whispering? But Minerva ignored that, and instead lifted the Book carefully from its stand, to place it on the desk before her. She sat down.   
"Well, you old creature," she muttered. "Do your worst." 

It wasn't  _ exactly _ unpleasant.   
Nor was it exactly pleasant, swirling lost within the pages of the Book.

Her eyes scanned the page before her, the registry of every living person in Britain who would at some point have contact with magic, whether knowingly or not. Most of the names were an indistinguishable blur— Muggles, mostly, who had come into contact with magic and then been obliviated or forgotten about it on their own. Their names and locations were in the Book anyway, for the Book was built to record. Perhaps a fifth of the names were in focus, readable, but did not particularly stand out: these were the squibs, the Muggles of magical descent, the grown witches and wizards, all in one pool. But every once in a while, a name would catch her eye, and Minerva would scribble a name and address onto the envelope, unable to look away until she had done so, and the frantic tension of the Book would ease a little.

The new students. Not all of them were of age 11; they ranged from about nine to fifteen, not counting the occasional transfer or nonhuman student. The Book did not care for the age of its students, after all, but for some other, hidden criteria. Minerva suspected it had something to do with accidental magic, or else with the magic concentrations of the prospective students reaching a certain level. And for each student whose envelope she addressed, she added their name to a sheet of paper: the school's attendance list, for daily use. And as the Book was organized by household, it was a simple matter to leave a star by the name of each Muggle-born— a note to herself, to send someone to explain the letter.

_ Justin Finch-Fletchey  _ was one, a Muggle-born for sure.   
_ Ronald Weasley.  _ That would have earned a comment from her, if it weren't for the way the Book made Minerva's head spin. To be honest, she wasn't even sure she could string together a sentence at the moment.   
_ Hermione Granger. _ _   
_ _ Lily Moon. _ _   
_ It always started with whispering.   
By the end of it, that was all she could hear.   
_ Neville Longbottom. Susan Bones. Draco Malfoy. Daphne Greengrass. Lisa Turpin. _ _   
_ The names, of all the students still alive. Last year's class had been small, but this one was even smaller.

_ Harry Potter. _

  
Until finally, some indeterminate amount of time later, the voices ceased.   
Minerva shuddered as she came back to herself.   
"Right," she murmured, drawing away from the Book of Admittance. "I take it we're finished?" Sure enough, the pages sat calm beneath her fingers now, except for the occasional twitch. Its primary duty done for the year, it would actually let her read it normally now if she so desired, as was her right as Deputy Headmistress.    
Not that she had any desire whatsoever to do so. Minerva closed the Book anyway, and carefully walked it to its podium. It  _ purred,  _ almost, when she set it down.   
She ignored it, and returned to the desk.   
There were only about 40 names on the list for this year. Presumably next year's would be bigger, as they would have been born  _ after _ the end of the war, but for now they would definitely have to pair up the houses for lessons again.  _ Well, at least staffing will be easier,  _ she thought, resigned. Of those, almost an entire  _ quarter _ were Muggleborn, more or less. Muggleborn, or half-bloods orphaned by the war, whether on the magical side or on both. But they, too, would need someone sent to the house, so they got the same mark.   
Minerva took a closer look at her list.   
Was that— 

_ Harry Potter. _

Her heart cracked.

Hurried, Minerva turned back to the Book of Admission, flipped it open.  _ Show me Harry Potter,  _ she spread the pages open.  _ Please, please show me, I have to check!  _ Sure enough, the Book cooperated, though not before sending chills up her arms. Harry Potter, Harry Potter— there! Preceded by…

_ A.Z. Fell  _ and  _ Anthony J. Crowley. _

The faint twinkle of hope that had begun to bloom extinguished.  _ Wrong family. _   
Not him.  _ The poor boy,  _ she thought,  _ he'll have no idea.  _ She looked at the address, taking care to copy it onto her list. An odd one, that— the two names stood out in a way she'd never seen before, different from the faintly purple ink of witches and wizards now that she could read the Book normally. They almost seemed to  _ move  _ under her eyes, even more than the rest of the page, and the whitespace beneath them was smudged, as if the names had been erased and rewritten many times. And that address!  _ A.Z. Fell Unusual and Antiquarian Books.  _ There was no street number, no city name, no postal code. Just the name of a shop! And why was it that the first person mentioned in the spot where a guardian should be seemed to have only initials and that lonely last name?   
Odd.   
Well, either way, she would have to visit.   
Most likely, this Harry Potter was just some unfortunate Muggleborn with a terribly coincidental name. And if it wasn't— well, Minerva would most assuredly want to handle that visit in person, too.

~~~

A map.   
It had been years since Minerva had had to use an actual map, and not just a Point Me spell. But the Point Me spell kept getting confused, looking for the bookshop, whereas the Muggle map of London, at least, did not move. It had taken a while, of course, to actually find the address of the shop— in fact, it turned out there were two by that name; one in Soho and one in Wraysbury. She'd decided to go after the Soho one first, it being closer to London and Diagon Alley.

Ah.   
There it was. A.Z. Fell & Co., Unusual and Antiquarian Books, established 1803.   
Minerva glanced at the closed sign on the door, then at the opening hours sheet. Then she glared. The description of the shop's opening hours reminded her of nothing so much as the hours of Ollivander's shop in the winter when there were no new students coming by. Oh well. Nothing for it. She did have three more visits to make this afternoon, and she would rather not have to come back later.   
Minerva knocked on the door.

A moment later, the door opened, just a crack. Someone rather plump, with curly whitish hair and an ancient waistcoat peered out at her. "So sorry," came the apologetic words. "I'm afraid we're closed for the day. What is it you wanted?"   
Minerva released her best, most friendly smile. "Oh, don't worry, I'm not a customer. I'm here looking for a, ah, Harry Potter?" She pretended to consult the envelope, not that she would ever forget that particular name in a million years. Still, Muggles tended to get uncomfortable, if she acted too direct with this sort of thing. "I have some correspondence for him, that might be best explained in person. May I?"   
There was an uncomfortable several seconds while the Muggle — the bookshop owner, presumably — stared.   
After a long moment, something seemed to click. "Ah!" they smiled, and their eyes lit up. "You must be one of those mages, then! Come to enroll Harry in your, ah, your school? Always thought it odd that there's only one of them, for all Britain, I mean it's rather putting all your eggs in one basket, isn't it? Come in, come in."

The interior of this shop reminded her of Ollivander's as well: dim lighting, windows that haven't gotten a good scrub in centuries, cobwebs in every corner and a vague yet unappealing musty scent. Not to mention the towering shelves full of impeccably clean books, and piles more of them arranged haphazardly on every surface. Minerva had long thought that sort of unwelcoming homeliness the sole purview of wizards, but apparently there were exceptions. If, indeed, whoever this was  _ was  _ a Muggle in the first place.   
"I'm afraid we're more often called witches and wizards nowadays," she said, "but thank you. Is young Mr. Potter around? I would be happy to address any concerns with you in private, of course, but I am required to deliver the letter directly to its intended recipient first. My name is Professor McGonagall."   
"Oh, yes, of course!" The likely owner ushered her over to the back of the shop through a beaded curtain. This room was infinitely more welcoming— plush chairs and settees, with cushions sprinkled about the place. A hearth was inset into one wall, and a coffee table sat in the middle. The walls, of course, were lined with bookshelves, but for a few bare spaces adorned with muggle art, and the occasional child's drawing; and the freakishly enormous black snake sprawling across a love seat by the fireplace did surprisingly little to detract from the ambience. Perhaps this was a family of Slytherins? But if so, why had she never heard of them before in all her years at Hogwarts?

"I am A.Z. Fell," they introduced themself. "I'm the owner of this establishment, and it really is lovely to meet you. Would you like some tea? Cocoa?"   
Minerva was starting to get an odd impression from the owner, as they poured her a cup of cocoa from a pot. He? He kept  _ staring  _ at her, covertly, and there was just a faint tingle of strangeness that she couldn't quite seem to pinpoint. Nevertheless, she had a job to do here.

And then the boy showed up. Knocked on the doorframe at the bottom of the stairs almost shyly. "You called?"

Minerva choked.   
"Harry?!" her teacup clattered down to its saucer as she rose. "Is that— oh Merlin, we thought we'd lost you!"

It was him.

Absolutely, undeniably  _ him.  _ "Oh, you look just like your father!" the words left her mouth without any kind of conscious intervention. "Only with your mother's eyes, oh Harry—" Minerva did her best to rein herself in. The poor thing had shrunk back against the wall as she babbled, his eyes as wide as saucers.

"Excuse me," he stuttered, "But, um, who are you?"

Minerva managed, with difficulty, to force herself back into something resembling a professional demeanor. She smiled. "My name is Minerva McGonagall. I am a professor with a very special invitation for you to a highly prestigious school." With Muggles, she had learned, it was often best not to mention magic at first. She still wasn’t sure about Fell, with those outdated terms and the giant snake, but she figured she had best play it safe. "And you are Harry Potter, correct?"   
"Judging by your earlier reaction, I don't think you really need to ask," Fell said primly.   
“Yes, I am." The boy nodded. He finally inched forward again, to sit on the sofa beside Mr. Fell, slipping one hand into his. For his own part, the bookshop owner pulled an extra mug out of somewhere Minerva didn't catch, and poured Harry an extra cup of cocoa.   
Minerva handed over the envelope. "Go on, then. Open it. I would have sent it in the post, but I suspected that the letter would require some explanation."

The boy only hesitated for a moment before tearing it open. "Dear Mr. Potter," he read out loud. "We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…" Harry trailed off. When he glanced over at Mr. Fell, his whole face was lit up like a  _ Lumos _ spell in the darkness. Mr. Fell, on the other hand, seemed absolutely unperturbed. Clearly not a Muggle. "I get to learn magic?! When you always say I have to be older to learn more, and go to school to do it, is this what you meant?"   
Mr. Fell beamed. "Absolutely! Go on, keep reading!"   
"Please find enclosed a list of all necessary equipment," Harry read slowly, but steadily. "Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July. Yours sincerely…" His eyes flicked upward in confusion. "Owl?"   
"Oh, there's no need for that," Minerva assured the pair. "I’m aware that you might not have one; you can simply give me your verdict in person, or by post. Any mail addressed to the Hogwarts post box in Hogsmeade will reach the school without issue, only a day or two later than an owl would deliver it." She paused. "So… have you got any questions, about the school, or about magic…?"

Mr. Fell spoke first. "As I recall, most magic in Britain is done with a… staff? No, that was rather a long time ago. Wands?"   
Minerva found herself puzzling over that remark. "Yes, we primarily use wands here. Almost exclusively, in fact. That has been the case for the past several centuries. Do not worry overmuch about how to acquire them, there will be an orientation for Muggle-born, Muggle-raised, and recently immigrated students on the twenty-fifth of August, or by appointment, during which we will go to Diagon Alley to purchase supplies.” Minerva hesitated. "You, ah, you are a wizard, correct? I'm afraid I did not recognize the surname or the family, but you do seem to have at least a passing familiarity with the idea of magic. The orientation is also recommended for foreign magical families as well, if you're new to the area." Either way, he looked remarkably unsurprised for a Muggle, though the question seemed to give him pause.

"I, um," Aziraphale stuttered. "Yes, we are a magical family," not technically a lie, "only we're, ah, new to the area? Well, not really  _ new _ by this point, we simply don't have much contact with the magical community here. I actually studied at Sundiata Keita Lekoli, a bit north of Timbuktu."    
Also true, though he hadn't exactly studied  _ magic  _ there, and it had been primarily at Sankore Madrasah in the city itself— they had a truly breathtaking library, especially back in the 14th century. It had been rather a relief to leave Europe to its own devices, even if he could only do so in brief, occasional spurts. "And… I believe it's Harry's turn to ask questions, now." 

The boy was practically bouncing out of his seat.   
McGonagall smiled in purest relief, and prepared to answer him.


	9. Decisions, Decisions.

Before too long, Harry ran out of questions that McGonagall felt she, specifically, had to answer. Fortunately, Mr. Fell seemed to agree.  


"Harry?" the bookseller asked. "Would you mind heading upstairs for a moment? Crowley and I have a few questions to ask the good professor that I’d rather not bore you with." Unspoken, he added _:and I doubt that she will speak freely in your presence.:_ _  
_ The kid blinked. "Sure, I guess?" He grabbed a book from one of the tables and jogged upstairs, letter in hand.

There was a moment of silence.  
"Crowley, sweetheart?"   
The snake perked up its head at that. It had moved, partway through Harry's questioning, to drape itself over its owner's lap in great, dusty coils.   
"Be a dear and go fetch, ah, Anthony for me. I believe he's in the shop somewhere."   
It tilted its head in what might be confusion, but after a moment slid off the chair and back toward the shop. Clever snake. Minerva stared at it uneasily.   
"Impressive," she murmured. "It knows what you're saying?"   
"Of course!" Mr. Fell smiled. "I have a way with animals." He leaned forward, and Minerva couldn't help but feel just a little intimidated despite the man's small stature. "Now. What are your intentions toward our godson?"   
" _Our_ godson?" She was careful to keep her tone curious, but not hostile. Who was this other godparent? Mr. Fell really didn't strike her as someone who was interested in women, but maybe she was wrong.

"Oh please," drawled a new voice from the doorway, just now passing through the beaded curtain into the back room. "I wouldn't miss this for the _world_ ."   
The man in question was small, and wiry, with golden skin and hair so dark she wasn't sure if it was black or red. She couldn't see his eyes behind the positively ridiculous Muggle sunglasses he wore, but other than that, he certainly had a sense of style: a dark red dress shirt tucked into black skinny jeans, with a scarf of a pale, cloudy lavender color and what had to be snakeskin shoes, though she couldn't make out how they were fastened.   
"Anthony J. Crowley," he introduced himself, "pleased to meet you." He smirked, turning to the bookseller. "And _really,_ angel? _Anthony?"_ _  
_ "I wasn't certain the snake would pick up on it, if I'd gone and switched the names around," Fell answered primly, sending his partner into chortles. "He usually goes by Crowley too, you see. The snake is named after him. He's my husband."   
"It's lovely to meet you, then, Mr. Crowley." Minerva inclined her head, briefly. Something about the man seemed more than a little off, to her more feline senses, but she resolved to put on a friendly face anyway. "As for your question, Mr. Fell, my intentions are plain. I'm sure you've already noticed, at this point, that Mr. Potter is magically gifted."   
"Yeah, that was pretty obvious from the get-go," Crowley drawled, taking a seat on the couch beside Mr. Fell.   
"Well, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is the best school in the world for magical children, and the only one in all of Britain. Of course, if you would rather, I do also have brochures for the nearest three other schools of magic as well— Durmstrang somewhere in Scandinavia, Beauxbatons in France, and the Balkan United Academy for Magic run by Moldova. Given your child's fame, I expect that even Durmstrang would be happy to take him in." She paused, trying and failing to read their expressions.   
"Hogwarts would be easiest, of course," she continued, "being situated in Scotland. School policy requires us to accept all magical children living in Britain when they reach schooling age, so naturally we also provide scholarships for the financially disadvantaged. Tolerance and acceptance are both among our founding values." A thin, yet reassuring smile traced her face. 

"Hogwarts, yes. It would be nice to be able to keep him here, within my more immediate domain." Mr. Fell pursed his lips. "Do you know anything about the place, darling?"  
Crowley shook his head. "Not particularly. I haven't been there since before Paris, and I wasn't exactly paying attention at the time. But we can talk that over later." He turned back to where Minerva sat, taking another cup of her cocoa. "How do you intend to protect him? Don't think we don't know who Harry is in the wizarding world. Frankly, taking him overseas might be a better idea, if only so the poor kid doesn't have to worry about his fame. But his safety is more important. It'll be easier for us to protect him if he's on the island, certainly, but he's still gonna be out of our sight for nine months out of the year."   
"Protect him?" Minerva blinked.   
"From the _rogue Death Eaters_ still wandering about, obviously! And possibly your Lord Voldemort, if he's still around. We know perfectly well _why_ he's an orphan. Honestly, if you want us to send him to your school, you should really do a better job of convincing us it'll be something resembling safe. You still have Death Eaters in your _government_ , for fuck's sake!" Crowley huffed, stretching out on the couch until his head rested on the other's lap. "So tell me. If they're still after him, as I know perfectly well they will be if bloody _Voldemort_ comes back, what are you planning to do about that?"

Minerva couldn't keep herself from wincing. "Typically, that name is not mentioned in Britain." She hauled herself back on topic. "But rest assured, the location of Hogwarts is Unplottable, as with most magical schools. No one can locate it on their own without currently being a teacher or member of staff, that's built into the wards. We also have the strongest wards by far of all Europe, and that is no exaggeration. The class sizes are small, only about 40 children in his year, split into two sections, and all of the staff are more than capable of defending the children in their care— in fact, there have been no student deaths at Hogwarts in a whole 40 years, even with the last war, which is better than three quarters of magical schools in the world. Beauxbatons, for example, had a rash of deaths related to attempted human transfiguration about a decade ago, and Durmstrang has one every few years thanks to dueling or sports accidents. Unless He Who Must Not Be Named truly does come back, I do not foresee even Harry Potter having any particular issues surrounding safety at school."  
When Harry's guardians didn't say anything, Minerva decided to seize the opportunity.   
"If you don't mind my asking… How, exactly, did the two of you come to be Harry Potter's guardians?" 

That brought the walls up fast. If Minerva had thought the pair were unreadable before, their faces now showed about as much emotion as a slab of rock.

“We found him," Mr. Fell eventually answered. "Or he found us, running away from his loathsome excuse for an uncle. His relatives really didn't seem to care for him, and I'd gotten to know him a bit as he spent time in my shop, so we adopted him ourselves. It seemed the right thing to do."  
"What my husband means," Crowley added, "is that he pretty much just showed up on our doorstep one day. Bruised, underfed, dressed in clothes that didn't fit and trainers with great big holes in, and by the time we managed to track down his aunt and uncle, they didn't even seem to really know who he was! Of course we adopted him."   
Nothing helpful, then. Minerva carefully kept the frown off her face. Her memory was suspiciously foggy, still, of the day she and Albus had gone on that frantic search for Harry. All she remembered learning was that Albus had found traces of an _akero,_ and all of the trails they'd been following had ended in nothing. The natural conclusion, of course, being that the _akero_ had taken him away, or killed him. "You really don't know how he got there?" she asked. "Whatever happened, it caused every tracking spell on him to fail simultaneously. If you could tell us—"

Mr. Fell started to snicker a little, but said nothing of use.

"Don't worry," Crowley smirked. "I doubt it's ever gonna happen again." He sobered, leaning forward in a way that felt unsettlingly intense. "My turn to ask a question now." His voice was only barely louder than a whisper, yet Minerva had no trouble understanding him. "Who the _heaven_ went and thought it was a good idea to place Harry with his aunt and uncle?! His aunt and uncle are absolute sacks of shit! Harry, uh, told us about them."   
She cleared her throat awkwardly before answering. "Ah, I'm afraid that was Headmaster Dumbledore. Several of the staff did doubt his decision, of course, and he did check up on the boy from time to time, but as I recall, no one raised any issues at the time. We were not aware that Mr. Potter's Muggle relatives were anything worse than a bit irritable toward him, especially given Petunia Dursley's attachment to her late sister, the boy's mother."   
Now Mr. Fell was the one who looked taken aback. "A bit irritable?! They considered Harry to be no better than a poorly-treated domestic! You can't—"

"Angel," his husband interrupted, surprisingly enough. A tired word was all it took to rein the bookseller in. "This isn't Professor McGonagall's fault. Rotten, awful people hide in plain sight all the time. Probably they just kept Harry out of sight whenever potentially concerned guests came around." His hand tightened around Mr. Fell's.  
"Yes, my dear boy, but these wizards were supposed to be _responsible_ for him, you can't just—"   
"And by the sound of it, they did what _would_ normally have been the responsible thing, if those horrible people had been either a little less horrible or a little less clever and careful." A sigh blew a trail of dark hair off his forehead and onto his cheek. "I told you, it's not their fault. That's why I'm not talking about _blame_ here, Aziraphale. All the blame goes to the Dursleys, _heaps_ of blame, a whole mountain of blame! I'm saying this so we can try and make sure this Dumbledore keeps a closer eye on the children he's responsible for from now on."

_Aziraphale?_ Minerva couldn’t help but notice. _What an odd name-- or, no, perhaps it was simply the bookseller’s full name, Ezra Fell or something similar._ They exchanged a long look which Minerva could not interpret, until finally Mr. Fell narrowed his eyes.   
"Oh alright," he conceded. "I won't smite anyone over this, you know that, Adam would never allow it."   
_Smite?_ Minerva felt like she was missing some crucial background information here. Mr. Fell continued. "But I fully expect that we be given an interview with this Headmaster of yours before we make our final decision."   
"That would be highly irregular," she began to protest. The two men shot her a look. "But— oh well, I suppose an exception could be made, for the family of Mr. Potter. I will put it on my list."

* * *

"Right, Harry.”

With McGonagall gone, Harry had sat back down with his godfathers. He'd read over the letter a few times now, and his face was starting to hurt from all the smiling— a school for _magic!_ He couldn't wait!   
Crowley mussed up his hair with a gentle smirk, then asked the inevitable question. "Have you made a decision?"   
Harry grinned. "Hogwarts! I wanna stay close to you guys, even if it is a boarding school! Besides," he added with a hint of shyness, "this says Hogwarts has by far the best Transfiguration program in all Europe and Asia, and that sounds like the sort of thing that involves turning into an animal."

His dads shared an amused look. "Yeah, alright," Crowley finally allowed. "Hogwarts is about the best, safest place north of the Sahara and this side of the ocean to learn human transfiguration. And you think you'll like the rest of the classes they offer there? Hogwarts does have pretty good Quidditch teams, at least— I think you'd have a blast with Quidditch." They could talk to Dumbledore, too, on their own time. Surely they could figure _something_ out, and if all else failed, between the two of them, Crowley and Aziraphale must be able to beat some sense into the man.

"We should get you a broom!" Zira exclaimed. He almost seemed to _glow_ with enthusiasm, and Harry snickered. "So you can fly! Flying really is a delight, my dear boy, I can't believe we hadn't thought of it before now. I hadn't thought of it because carpets are embargoed in Britain, but the mages here use brooms!"   
"I don't think first-years are allowed brooms of their own," Crowley interrupted. "But I bet we can figure out some notice-me-not wards around the cottage, angel, if Harry wants to practice next summer."   
"Oh, absolutely!" Zira beamed. "It'll only take a few hours. Hogwarts, then?"   
"Hogwarts," Harry nodded.

"Well. In that case, we should get a wiggle on! And that way, you should have a month or so to study before school begins." Zira squirmed under Crowley's elbow, and made a resigned addition. "Only if you want, of course. You know me. You don't actually _have_ to study for it yet. But I do expect you to try and keep up your mathematics!”

Harry giggled. It was always funny to see them like this, with Zira still trying to get up and Crowley sprawled over the top of them, being _extraordinarily unhelpful._ _  
_ "Nnoo," Crowley whined. "Don't get up, you're so warm!" But Zira managed to slip out from under him anyway, leaving one unhappy snake halfway off the couch. "Besides, Harry should know what he's getting into first," he added, in a more serious tone of voice. And then Crowley was a little snake, slithering off the sofa and onto his angel's shoulders with accustomed ease.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

Zira hesitated. It was quite a burden to put on a little boy, after all. Being seen as a… war hero, as distasteful as the thought was. "Do you recall what we said when we first adopted you, about your birth parents?" he asked, and then pushed on without waiting for a response. "They were wizards. Wizards are a little hardier than the rest of humanity, you see, and— well, they were murdered. By a very _evil_ wizard who called himself Voldemort."   
The poor boy's eyes went wide. "I remember," he said.   
Aziraphale swallowed, forcing himself to continue. "Well, that wizard was _attempting_ to go after you, more than the two of them." He'd done some research of his own on the topic, since adopting Harry, and as a result had a much more complete picture of the situation than Petunia Dursley ever had. "But your mother did a very brave thing. She understood magic, you see, better than just about every other mage of her time, and decided: Voldemort couldn't have you. I'm not sure of the specifics, but she managed to… _transfer,_ I suppose, your fate to her." 

It was comforting, feeling the gentle squeeze of Crowley's scales. Aziraphale did feel a _little_ bad about that, the fact that he was the one with Crowley, and not Harry. "So when Voldemort cast his curse of death, it rebounded, and for whatever reason ended up hitting him instead. I'm afraid I don't know exactly what happened there, the explosion made everything rather difficult to see. But in any case, your parents died, and Voldemort with them. You survived." Or at least, Voldemort was presumably dead. But without being able to get the soul registry from Hell anymore, it was difficult to tell for certain. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling." He sat back down on the sofa with agitated hands, to wrap Harry in a hug. "In any case, this all goes to say that… most of the wizarding community, at least in Britain, thinks that you're the one responsible. You survived, after all."

"I was a _baby!"_ Harry protested, and bless him for noticing. "What could I possibly have done?!"   
"I know, my dear. I'm not sure why he decided to go after you, and it's entirely absurd how much the wizarding world seems to revere you." Aziraphale sighed with a rustling of feathers. "But it's true. Voldemort did a lot of very bad things, and terrorized a lot of people for many years. They needed someone to look up to, I suppose. Which happened to be you. Now, I'm sure the fervor's died down a bit, you have been out of touch with them for over a decade at this point. But you must be prepared. Many of these witches and wizards are going to think you're a bit of a hero. But we need you to be strong, and try not to give in to their hero worship. Can you do that for us?"   
Harry's eyes were wide. "But that's so cool!" he exclaimed.

It was Crowley's turn to intervene, slithering off to their godson's shoulders. " _Not particularly_ ," they hissed. " _Think of it like this. You remember when you went to the zoo in Year 3, and set that snake free by accident? And everyone was sort of in awe of you for a while? What did you think of that?_ "   
That got him thinking. "It was really neat! But only for the first while, and then it just felt really uncomfortable. Nobody really wanted to talk to me. And the teachers didn't like it, and some people were scared of me, and that was even weirder."   
" _Exactly. People are gonna be even more intense about this, because your mum may have saved their lives, not just freed a snake. And nobody's ever survived that curse before. Besides, you said it yourself, you didn't actually do anything. You sure it'll still feel good to be looked up to, even if you didn't do the thing they're looking up to you for?_ "   
"Oh." Harry frowned. "But surely they will have gotten over it by now. Right?"   
" _We're not sure_ ." Crowley's head bumped soothingly against his chin. " _But even if they haven't, I'm sure they will eventually, if you try and get to know them. It just might be a little harder if you look like you're reveling in the attention, is all. Do you still want to go to Hogwarts_ ?" 

That caused a hesitation, but only a brief one. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I do. I shouldn't just _not do_ something I want to do because other people'll be weird about it, right?”   
"Exactly!" Zira beamed. "Oh, I'm so excited for you! You'll be able to do more magic, all on your own! And visit the Hogwarts library! I suppose Crowley and I will have to go find the real entrance to Diagon Alley, too— you'll _love_ Diagon Alley, truly."

  
And as he pored over Aziraphale's stash of moving pictures in the back of the shop, Harry decided that he would. 


	10. Off To See The Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have a... talk with the Headmaster.

About a week later, a nondescript tawny owl tapped at the window of the Soho bookstore. It carried a small letter in its beak, sealed with what Aziraphale immediately recognized as the crest of Hogwarts. He opened the window. The owl perched on the windowsill with eager eyes as he read the missive. It was short, containing only a few lines of bright violet text, of which the signature took up almost half:

> To whom it may concern, 
> 
> I would be most pleased to make the acquaintance of Mr. Harry Potter's guardians. I hope that I may resolve whatever questions or concerns you may have. Meet me at 2pm in the private parlor of the Leaky Cauldron, on August the twenty-second.
> 
> Signed,
> 
> Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore  
>  Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the British Ministry for Magic, Grand Sorcerer, Order of Merlin First Class.

Aziraphale blinked. The twenty-second was only a few days away. "Rather short notice, isn't it?" he murmured.  
The snake wrapped around his arm flicked out a tongue at that. "Issss that a letter from the Headmassster?"  
"It is," Aziraphale said. He read the letter out loud to Crowley-- his eyes didn't do well with the written word, particularly in this form.  
"Sssupreme Mugwump?" Crowley hissed incredulously. "That can't be right."  
Aziraphale sighed. "No, it's correct. The position of Supreme Mugwump was established in —"  
"I'll take your word for it, angel," Crowley interrupted. "Ssstill. What with the ssshort notice and all the titless, thisss doesn't exactly sssound like a friendly chat."  
"I'm sure he's a busy man, darling."  
"He'ss an _important_ one," Crowley countered. "And he's usssed to everyone knowing it."  
"I wouldn't read too much into it," Aziraphale said primly, folding up the letter and setting it on his desk. "One never knows, with people like that. He may be self-important and arrogant, or he may not."  
"He'll be in for a ssshock, either way," Crowley hissed smugly.  
The owl who brought the letter let out a grumpy squawk on its pile of books, and Aziraphale furrowed his brows.  
"Pay the owl, angel," Crowley reminded him.  
"Oh! Right." Aziraphale miracled up a few brass coins.  
"No, that'ss not right," Crowley hissed. He twitched his tail, and the coins changed shape. "You're off by a few centuriesss."  
The bird did seem to like those ones better. Aziraphale handed the coins to the owl, who nodded and took off.

A few days later, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves in a dark and shabby pub. Crowley sauntered up to the bar, leaning over the counter.  
"Hello there, Tom!" Crowley greeted with a sharp smile. The man behind the bar, an old, toothless man, winced a little when he recognized Crowley. Aziraphale raised a surprised eyebrow-- whatever history Crowley had with the place, it certainly hadn’t been with Aziraphale.

"Mister Crowley! It's been a very long time." Tom stared suspiciously. "What brings you back to the Leaky Cauldron?"  
"Oh, you know," Crowley said airily, waving a hand in dismissal. "We're supposed to meet someone in the private parlor at 2. Just business."  
Tom blinked. Whatever answer he'd expected, that clearly wasn't it. "Wait, that's _you_ ?" He rummaged around in his pockets and pulled out a crumpled note. "It says here, A.Z. Fell and… Anthony J. Crowley." He squinted at the note. "Well, I suppose that is you, then. I didn't know your first name was Anthony."  
They shrugged. "Mind showing us to the back?"

They followed Tom into the back parlor, which featured a fireplace and a few armchairs. In the corner near the window sat an old wizard in long flowing robes. He had several feet of long silver hair and beard, which was neatly tucked into his belt, and an extremely crooked nose. Though he was clearly very old for a human, he gave the impression of great energy. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles.  
When Aziraphale and Crowley entered the room, the man stood, a warm smile on his face. "Hello, hello! Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley, how wonderful to make your acquaintance!" He reached out to shake their hands, first Aziraphale's, then Crowley's.  
"It's Mx. Crowley, actually," Crowley corrected smoothly.  
"My apologies, Mx. Crowley," the man responded, his smile not faltering in the slightest. "I'm Dumbledore. I'm sure you must have questions for me, and I will do my best to answer them."  
"A pleasure to meet you," Aziraphale said with an answering smile. The brush of contact gave him enough information to know how he wanted to approach this conversation. "We appreciate that you were able to make time for this, we understand that such meetings are not standard procedure."

Dumbledore made a dismissive hand gesture. "Oh, it's no trouble, not for the guardians of Mr. Potter! The situation has worked out for the best — I have plenty of questions of my own that I believe you may be able to answer."  
Crowley raised an eyebrow at that.  
"And we will endeavor to answer some of them," Aziraphale responded with an innocent smile. Crowley smirked from behind their sunglasses. It was always entertaining to watch Zira being a bastard. He was so very good at hiding sharp edges under smooth politeness, and it was so unexpected, coming from the kind old bookseller, that people tended to second-guess themselves. 

"Wonderful!" Dumbledore said, clapping his hands together. He gestured to the other chairs. "Please, do take a seat."  
They did so. "Now, I understand you have some concerns about Mr. Potter's safety?"  
Aziraphale nodded. "That is one of our concerns, yes. You see, we are well aware that Harry is quite the target for the remaining followers of the most recent Dark Lord, and most schools are not prepared to handle that level of security risk."  
Dumbledore nodded in understanding. "Quite a reasonable concern, Mr. Fell. However, Hogwarts is perhaps the safest place in all of Britain. It is Unplottable, it is impossible to teleport to, it has the strongest wards in all of Europe, and the staff alone is quite capable of defending their students."  
Crowley let out a _hmmph!_ at that, but Aziraphale merely smiled, absently twisting the ring on his finger. "That is reassuring, yes." Dumbledore made as if to respond, but Aziraphale continued. "However, that is not our _only_ concern."  
“Oh?"

Aziraphale’s hands stilled as he met Dumbledore's gaze. "You see, we are hesitant," he said, every word falling clearly from his lips, "to entrust the care of our son to the man who sent him into an abusive household as an infant."

Dumbledore's mouth opened, then closed. Aziraphale was interested to note the flash of guilt that appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye, far too quickly for any human to pick up on, to be replaced by an expression of shock and horror. "I never knew —"  
"You suspected," Crowley interrupted, speaking for the first time since they had sat down. Their expression was cold, their eyes shielded by their sunglasses. "How many times did you check up on him? How many people did you send to watch him? One of the neighbors, perhaps?"  
This time, Dumbledore's expression settled immediately on sadness, tinged with resignation. "No, I never knew — but you're right, the signs were there. I suppose I had been living with the hope that things were not so bad as they seemed."  
"Why? Why couldn't you have done something?" Crowley hissed.  
Dumbledore shook his head. "As long as Harry lived with his blood relatives, he was under powerful magical protection. If I had found someone else to take him in, he would have been in grave danger." He looked into the fire, eyes full of sorrow. "It was the best of a terrible situation, I'm afraid. Every day I wonder if I made the right choice." Interestingly, this statement rang true -- Aziraphale had the sense that the decision truly had been difficult, and that here was a man haunted by remorse.

"Well, as it happens, I have an answer for you," Aziraphale interjected calmly. "You didn't." He folded his hands together neatly on his lap. "If your concern had truly been out of his safety, there are hundreds of ways to protect a child. Yes, blood relation makes it easier, particularly given his mother's blessing — " and Dumbledore's eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly at that— "but it's not the only way. Send him to another country with an excellent wizard or two as his caretakers, find some non-wizard parents who've raised a wizard child who would be willing to adopt, bring the best spellcasters in Britain together to figure out the best way to protect this child. Raise him yourself, if you're so worried."  
He leaned in again, fixing Dumbledore with a coldly polite gaze. "My point is, there were options."

Dumbledore was silent.  
“He'sss easier to control if he's been taught to live in fear," Crowley hissed quietly, intimately, as though whispering in his ear, the demon murmuring temptations on his shoulder eleven years ago. It was quite a trick, for a demon seated on the opposite side of a table from their target. "Easier to ssend out to die as a little pawn, if he's never learned to ssstand up for himself."  
Dumbledore folded his hands, the very picture of the intent listener.  
"And you'd never ssssay that was why you did it, never even think it, _oh no_ , it's all for the greater good, of coursse. But if you're a little ssslow to come up with other options, well… you made the besst out of a bad ssituation, that's all." They leaned back, watching the wizard's reaction. 

“I’m afraid there are more factors at play than you understand,” Dumbledore said softly. “Perhaps there was some part of myself which was influenced by that logic, much as I loathe the thought.” He dipped his head, just slightly, in acknowledgement. “However -- his parents’ deaths were the result of a deep betrayal, one that took even me by surprise. My trust has been broken in the matter of young Harry Potter once already, and I have no wish to test that again. You understand, then, why I cannot run the risk of involving another witch or wizard in his upbringing. And I am already too great a target to be entrusted with a child myself.”

Aziraphale blinked. Perhaps there was more to this man than he’d thought. He shared a glance with Crowley, who rolled their eyes and spoke. "Was there a prophecy? I bet there was a prophecy, there’s always a prophecy with this sort of thing."

Dumbledore’s expression shut down immediately. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about.”  
"Hah!" Crowley smirked. "Of course there was. Let me guess, he's some sort of chosen one? Supposed to defeat Voldemort once and for all?"

Dumbledore 's eyes grew cold as he stood up abruptly. He took out his wand and muttered something. Aziraphale felt the ward spells fly past him to settle around the room, blocking all noise from exiting the parlor with admirable efficacy.  
"There are only three people who know about that prophecy," he said quietly. The eccentric old man façade was gone. This was the look of a man who led armies into battle. "The first does not remember it, the second is accounted for, and the third is myself."  
The steely look of war in his eyes made his face oddly familiar. Aziraphale could have sworn he'd seen that face during the Second World War — not just the expression, but the actual, literal face.  
Crowley slouched calmly in their chair, not the slightest bit cowed by the air of power the wizard had put on like a cloak. Although Aziraphale got the impression that if any human besides Adam Young could give them a real challenge, it just might be Albus Dumbledore. "Just a guess," Crowley shrugged.  
"If we were on the side of the opposition, why would Harry still be alive and well, and better cared for than he had ever been in his life?" Aziraphale asked softly, soothingly. "We mean no harm, we are simply accustomed to these sorts of situations, and have learned what to expect."

The Headmaster placed his wand on the table and pushed his glasses up on his nose. " _Neither can live while the other survives,"_ he confirmed, sitting back down. "The outcome of the battle is not certain."  
Crowley scoffed. "Yeah, well, nothing is. Free will and all that, right? You people always try to force your prophecies. Just leave well enough alone!"  
Aziraphale coughed. "What my darling is getting at, you understand, is that prophecies are predictive in nature. They are an attempt to describe the most likely set of outcomes, but they do not set the future in stone. They are not meant to serve as a basis for any concrete sets of plans. The more people try to force the future to take a particular shape, the more likely that the prophecy will go awry." He cut off what might have turned into a lecture before it began, realizing that as the Headmaster of a wizarding school, Dumbledore was unlikely to appreciate it.

The man sighed. "You are not from this area, Minerva told me. You cannot understand how terrible Voldemort's reign of terror was. We live in fear that he might return. The prophecy gave us hope — we cannot help but grasp for it."  
“We've seen reigns of terror," Crowley said flatly. "And child sacrifices are not how you stop them."  
He grew silent, then spread his hands. "I understand your concerns, Mx. Crowley, Mr. Fell. But what would you have me do at this late date? Hogwarts is still the best school for witchcraft and wizardry in the nation, and the safest school for Harry in all of Europe.” He paused. “It is not a boast to say that I am generally regarded as the one person Voldemort fears; he will be best protected from outside threats while under my protection."

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged glances. _:I don't trust him:_ , was Crowley's assessment. _:He knows more than he’s telling.:_  
_:He has a point though, dearest:,_ Aziraphale responded. _:I think-- well, I think we've thoroughly shaken him, though I must admit the man is difficult to read. As best I can tell, he truly does want to think of himself as a good man. He'll behave.:_ _  
_ _:We can make sure of it,:_ Crowley answered, both a promise and a threat. Aziraphale wasn’t so sure the threat would hold, but, well -- _:It’s easy enough to ensure that he’s honest about the particulars, at least.:_

"Harry will go to Hogwarts," Aziraphale said finally. "On the condition that any plans you have involving him -- any schemes, anything that might affect his safety -- you will tell Harry about. He must be able to give his fully informed consent to anything that might involve him. In fact, he should be fully included in the decision-making process, and able to give feedback."  
Dumbledore looked grave. "I'm afraid that is not always possible, Mr. Fell. Generals cannot disclose everything in war. There are factors at play here you cannot possibly understand."  
" _Harry is not a sssoldier,_ " Crowley hissed. "And we’re not idiots, either. You have to trust that other people are competent, intelligent human beings who might give you useful feedback, otherwise they may as well be chess pieces! _That's_ the reason you can't be trusted!" They leaned back, eyes narrowing behind their sunglasses. "Someone else could have pointed out other options than giving Harry to the Dursleys, if you'd bothered to listen to anyone but yourself."  
The wizard paused for a moment. “Perhaps,” he said, and his words fell like stones. “But that would require that I entrust my full thoughts to another, or they would not see enough for their advice to be helpful. I cannot afford that luxury.”  
Aziraphale tilted his head. “If a child must be a piece in your games, they should be permitted to know the part of the puzzle they are in.” He frowned. “At the very least they should know that they are in the puzzle at all.”

The Headmaster sighed. “I have no wish to take Harry’s childhood from him.”  
“No more than you already have,” Crowley muttered.  
“Nevertheless, I will avoid involving Harry unless it becomes absolutely necessary,” he said. “And by that time, Harry should be old enough to be shown at least a small part of the picture.”  
Aziraphale stared straight into his eyes and was resigned to note that this did not illuminate much at all. Grudgingly, he realized he would simply have to take the man at his word. "I suppose." And at the slightest hint of danger, perhaps Harry would gain a new scaly pet.

There was a knock on the door. "Mr. Dumbledore, sir?" Tom's voice called out.  
Dumbledore smiled smoothly. "Come in, Tom," he answered, resuming his eccentric old man act.  
The old barkeeper came in, pushing a cart with a set of tea and crumpets. He poured tea for each of them while Aziraphale set to work buttering a crumpet.

Once Tom had left, Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I mentioned at the beginning of this meeting that I have a few questions of my own," he said delicately.  
Crowley smirked. "Go on."  
"Firstly, how _did_ you keep Harry safe?" he asked, a note of genuine curiosity in his voice.  
They exchanged glances. No wonder that had been his first question, Aziraphale realized, if the man had been so concerned with Harry’s safety to begin with. "Well, for one thing, we are not particularly involved in the magical community in Britain," the angel said. "The isolation helps."  
“And for another — " Crowley smiled, showing a hint of fang. "We are _very_ good at protection spells."

“I see." Dumbledore sipped at his tea. "My next question — how did Harry come to live with you? One day, he was living with the Dursleys, and the next, he had vanished. There were traces of a powerful magical entity in the area. We assumed he had been killed."  
"Harry always liked to visit my bookshop," Aziraphale responded, carefully deciding how much of the truth to tell. He'd finally drawn the story out of Crowley about that rather hostile conversation on the doorstep, and didn't want to ruin all the demon's hard work. "I grew quite fond of him. One day, a few years ago, he showed up on our doorstep. We took him in, of course. We saw how bruised and underfed he was — I had known his home life wasn't ideal, but he had never let me see the full extent of the abuse — and his aunt and uncle had lost all memory of his existence. I couldn't just leave him." He nibbled at his crumpet. It was passable, though not remarkable, and would do well with a spot of jam.  
"But how did he end up on your doorstep?" Dumbledore pressed. "Did he run away? Did something bring him there?"  
The angel shook his head. "Perhaps some strange creature saw what injustice he was suffering and decided to do something about it." There was no _perhaps_ about it, Aziraphale thought to himself. "Harry doesn't know why it happened either, all he knows is that suddenly he had a home and a family that cares about him."  
The wizard frowned. "Fascinating."

There was a tapping on the window, and Dumbledore opened it with a smile. A phoenix flew into the room to light on the Headmaster's shoulder. "Hello, Fawkes," he murmured, stroking the phoenix's head. "Have you got a message for me?" The phoenix squawked, dropping a letter from its foot into the wizard's hand.  
Aziraphale blinked. Phoenixes were simple creatures, and deeply ineffable ones. If one had chosen Dumbledore, at the moment of that choice he must have been truly sincere in his goal, sincere in the belief that it was good, and sincere in placing that goal above his own life.  
It was no guarantee of the sincerity of his later actions, of course. But it was… something.

The wizard stood, folding up the letter and placing it in his pocket. "My apologies, Mr. Fell, Mx. Crowley, but it would seem I am needed elsewhere." He picked up a long, purple cloak that had been draped across the back of his chair and put it on. "It has been very interesting to meet you. This has certainly been a conversation to remember."

***

The week after the Deputy Headmistress had come to visit crawled past agonizingly slowly for Harry. He couldn't wait until school (a big change from his usual summer attitude!). At the end of the week, Zira and Crowley went out, apparently to meet the Headmaster to "address a few concerns". They came back a few hours later, exchanging the sort of thoughtful glances that Harry had decided years ago probably meant they were talking to each other telepathically.

He waited for a few minutes, then gave up. "So?" he asked. "How'd it go?"  
Zira blinked and turned to him, as though he'd forgotten Harry was in the room. "Oh. Sorry, Harry dear, I was a bit distracted."  
"Yeah, I could tell," he said. "How'd the meeting go?"  
Zira and Crowley exchanged looks again. Zira sighed. "Well, we're willing to send you to Hogwarts."  
Harry frowned. "Wait, was that not the plan?"  
"We wanted to make sure the Headmaster is… suitable," Zira said.  
Harry rolled his eyes. That explained it, they were being overprotective.

Crowley caught his expression and shook their head. "It's not just about keeping you safe, Harry. The Headmaster's the one who sent you to the Dursleys."  
_Oh_ . Harry felt his chest tighten.  
"We wanted to make sure he could be trusted," Zira said. "And… we think he can, to a point. Probably."  
Crowley snorted. "He's a great scheming bastard, but he does seem to want the best for his community, and he has some solid reasons for what he did. So…" They shrugged. "I wouldn't trust him, but I don’t think he would knowingly allow you to be harmed. Which is actually saying a fair amount, given that he was apparently observant enough to avoid or disarm the glitter trap I planted for him without even seeming to look for it."  
“Crowley!” Zira gave a scandalized gasp. His eyes were twinkly, though, so he had to be amused.

Harry thought it over for a minute, then nodded. "Don't trust authority, got it," he said, smiling tentatively at Crowley, who ruffled his hair with a grin.  
"Exactly!"

  
Zira shook his head indulgently. "Well, in any case, it sounds like we've made up our minds," he said. "That means we can go school shopping tomorrow."

"Really?!" Harry exclaimed. School shopping for _this_ school was bound to be way more exciting than it was last time. "For a magic wand and a flying broomstick and a cauldron and — "  
Zira chuckled. "First-years aren't allowed broomsticks, but yes, we'll get you a wand. And a few other things — the Deputy Headmistress left us a list with your letter of admittance."

Harry grinned. He knew he wouldn't be able to get to sleep tonight. But that didn't matter. Tomorrow, he'd be a real wizard!


	11. Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley take Harry to Diagon Alley. They meet some interesting people in the Leaky Cauldron, Crowley lies on the floor and chats with a goblin, and Harry encounters fantasy racism.

As it turned out, Crowley vaguely recalled taking the official route into London's wizarding quarter back in the eighteenth century, a couple times. They led Harry and Zira along a meandering route along West End, eventually ending up in front of a pub. They did want Harry to get a proper welcome to the wizarding community, after all. That wouldn’t happen if Crowley just teleported them all straight to Diagon Alley like they had for the meeting with Dumbledore.  
 _The Leaky Cauldron,_ it proclaimed itself. _Est. 1503._

They'd ended up only a few streets away from the Soho entrance, right on Charing Cross Road. Aziraphale fit right in here, between the antique shops and the ancient little bookstores— and, of course, the tiny pubs that had stood there since the dawn of time. Crowley's tongue flickered from their mouth once, twice. "Yeah," they said at last. "This is the place. It positively _stinks_ of magic. Forgot it was so close to the shop."   
And then Crowley was striding into the pub. Harry followed with some trepidation. It was a tiny place, the Leaky Cauldron. Small and moldy on the outside, its smoke-blackened sandstone coated with dirt— to be honest, it reminded Harry of the bookshop, only much less welcoming to kids who needed a safe place, and only _slightly_ more welcoming to actual customers.   
His eyes adjusted to the dim light. "It's so big on the inside!" Harry gasped. His voice was hushed, on instinct, beneath this ancient stone. Where the outside of the building could not possibly have concealed more than about 30 meters of space, the interior had a great big room in the front, littered with tables and chairs and a bar— and it had gone completely silent.

The bartender was the first to speak.  
"Good Lord," he peered at Harry from behind the register. "Is this— can it be—?" A pause, as he extracted himself from glasses and implements to hurry out from behind the bar. "Bless my soul," he whispered, "Harry Potter… what an honor."

Bless it.  
Of _course_ the very first thing that happens the moment they walk inside was that Harry was recognized. They should have thought to put a notice-me-not on Harry. Or to check in beforehand to figure something out with Tom. Something. Because now the chatter in the little pub was louder than ever, everyone standing up to shake hands with a bloody _eleven-year old_ and — this was ridiculous.   
“So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."   
"Always wanted to shake your hand— I'm all of a flutter!"   
But the angel still wanted to be _nice._ Crowley sighed. So all they could really do for the moment was make sure no-one who came close to Harry had any kind of hostile intent, and try and figure out how to get into the Alley sooner rather than later. They began slipping through the crowd toward a somewhat more jaded-looking patron ensconced in a book; perhaps they could receive directions from her—

What on _Earth_ was that.

Crowley sent Zira a mental nudge and followed the stench of wrath, pride, and overwhelming terror to its source.

There was a very thin, pale young man in a purple turban twitching on the edge of the crowd. _Definitely him,_ Crowley thought, and _why is he so scared?_ The man shook, and trembled, and his wide eyes danced from one side of the room to the other— and alighted on Crowley.

The stranger froze.

And Crowley lunged.

They reached the stranger within half a second, shoving him out the back door and into the alley with the speed of a striking snake, to push him up against the chain link fence. " _Who are you?!"_ Crowley snarled. That cloud of evil seemed vaguely familiar, but nothing, _nothing_ got to hurt their godkid in their presence. Nothing even got to try. "What are you doing here?"   
"I-I-I— nothing!" the man protested. "I just wanted t-t-t-to say hello," he stuttered. "P-please get off of me!"

Now that Crowley had him in their hands, there was something _wrong_ about this stranger. Something wrong and something familiar, and the two were related, but not… they squinted. An aura, that's what it was, there was something superimposed over his aura. Like…

Possession.

_Oh, fuck._

Crowley made a show of relaxing, leaning back a little while still blocking the way out. Hopefully Aziraphale would have dealt with any commotion inside, if anyone noticed them tackling some random wizard into the back alley. "Possession, huh?" he smirked. "Come on, don't be shy, you little bugger. I know you're in there. Trying to go after me and Aziraphale again, are you?"

That actually seemed to take the stranger by surprise. "I— no! I d-d-don't even know who you are!"

"Give it up!" Crowley hissed. "I know what possession looks like, and if you keep _pretending_ that's not what you're doing, I know someone who can rip you right out of that human's head and into your own body. You've heard of him. His _original_ given name is Adam, the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness, and our Lord Below himself couldn't stand up to him. Somehow, I don't think you can, either." 

And _oh,_ that voice in the back of the stranger's head was unexpected.

It wasn't a purely mental voice. It wasn't coming out of the stranger's mouth. It was _literally_ on the back of his head, Crowley could hear the actual physical pitches of it in the actual blessed air. A… _human?_ Since when could _humans_ possess people?!

"I see," that faint, high-pitched voice hissed. "You seem to have some allies that I might… appreciate, for my return. Great Serpent."  
Those scared brown eyes bored into them, and then the stranger turned around, began unwrapping the turban. And beneath it…

"What in the blessed Manchester—” Crowley broke off.   
_Honestly,_ they thought to themself. _What the actual_ fuck _is this?! This man has an entire other_ face _attached to the back of his head, because of a_ possession _. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before._ It was definitely the possession causing it, though; they could clearly feel the link between the floating patch of evil and the general signs of possession scrawled all over his aura. Crowley stared at it. The evil cloud stared back. 

And then—

"I know why you feel so familiar," the demon breathed. Dread squirmed in their stomach. "I thought I killed you already." _Aziraphale!_ they called, internally. As nearby to each other as they were, Zira would be bound to at least get the urgency of their request. _Aziraphale, I need you to smite something for me!_

Crowley gripped the stranger tighter, their eyes boring into the thing on the back of its head. Smiled in a way they hoped looked cool and serpentine rather than shocked and fearful. The thing smelled like a snake - _Bless it, of course Voldemort is a Parselmouth_ . But Crowley was _the_ snake, the Great Serpent. This malicious, wriggling shadow of a soul had _dared_ claim some kind of mastery over Crowley’s domain. They coiled their power tighter around the struggling creature, suppressing the urge to sink their teeth into it and devour it whole, to make an example of this pitiful human snake who thought himself a lord of serpents. No. That would likely kill the man whose body had been stolen, and they would rather not kill an innocent victim.

Oh Sat— oh _Something,_ Aziraphale had better have kept the people in the pub from noticing. If there was one thing Crowley did not want, it was a public panic here because wizards saw someone trying to threaten _fucking Voldemort_ , not to mention whatever presumably-innocent human the body actually belonged to. Or for Downstairs to hear about it, that would be bad too, no matter how they explained it away. Crowley ignored their anxiety and kept talking.   
“Hello, there, Voldie. Good to see you again. _Why_ are you _doing this?_ "

It was tricky, trying to unfold the mess that was this stranger's mind without its uninvited guest noticing. But they needed to be careful, to kill the shade and save the victim. 

"Isn't it obvious, you fool?" Voldemort hissed. "I will taste of immortality, and be restored!"

Immortality.

It was always immortality, with evil wizards, wasn't it? Crowley choked back a hysterical laugh. "Immortality!" they hooted. It was even enough to distract them, a little, from noting down all the little connections between Voldemort and its host to tease them apart. "You split your soul into pieces in search of _immortality?!"_ They couldn't keep the laughter from escaping any longer, great ridiculous guffaws that shook their whole body with the sound. "Really?!" 

The thing writhed in their grasp, a viper struggling to escape the coils of a king cobra, and Crowley sobered all at once. When they spoke again, their voice was quiet, their eyes fixed on the oh-so-mortal wizard in a stranger's body. 

"No. You evil wizard types are all the same," they murmured. "It's not even that _hard_ . Humans have made themselves immortal before, not often, but it happens. But _you're_ going about it in completely the wrong way. You're already, what, six sevenths of the way dead? More, if you’ve been tearing your soul in _half_ each time?"

They leaned in close, now, the heat of their angel at their back. Voldemort must have made out something of their eyes, even through the sunglasses, because the victim's body tensed in what smelled like a shot of sudden fear and doubt. Common reaction. Crowley played into it, smiling a wide and sharp-fanged smile.   
“See, all that does is speed your death along. That and tell Downstairs to get the metaphorical cauldrons nice and _hot_ for your imminent light-speed plunge. Because guess what, Voldie?"

That half-baked face glowered silently at them.  
Crowley had hoped for "burning with anticipation", but at this point, smoldering with terrified rage would do. Their angel was finally here, like sunlight at their back, and Crowley figured they knew where to cut well enough to show Aziraphale what to do. It paid, sometimes, to be dramatic, because Voldemort didn't even seem to have noticed their meddling. They dropped the smile, and lowered their shades a little with it. Just in case Mr. Evil Wizard hadn't gotten the point quite yet.

"You were dying from the first day you split your soul in two."

And then Aziraphale was there, armed with something long and pointed and flaming, and both Voldemort and his victim tried to duck, but Crowley held them still.

Zira lowered the weapon until it pointed directly at Voldemort.  
_:It's possession, love. I mapped it out for you and everything,:_ Crowley pushed their mental notes to the angel— and then two fingers on Zira's other hand raised and lowered like a surgeon's blade, cutting the possessor's consciousness off from its host. Voldemort’s consciousness was almost pretty, in a way, like a cloud of noxious gas suspended helpless in the air. Aziraphale's eyes glowed with quiet satisfaction.   
_:Thank you, dear,:_ came the mental murmur. _:Now please get out of the way.:_

Crowley turned and walked to their angel's side without a second glance, piling up every magical shield over themself that they could manage. They would rather not be evicted from their own body with Aziraphale like this, even very briefly. The Principality of Earth wouldn't mean to scorch them— but, well. Holy rage and all that. Only then did Aziraphale speak, and the words overflowed with quiet power.  
"Vile spirit—"

It was like the whole universe hummed in tune. Even on the other side from where Zira was aiming, and with magical shields, it filled Crowley with light, and clouds like blades, and music they hadn't felt firsthand in _eons,_ so bright it set their entire soul to vibrating even as it twisted and burned within them. And then Aziraphale's wings emerged, all four of them, their multitudes of eyes open and glaring rage.

"I cast thee out."

Voldemort squealed, once.

And found himself alone.

There was a tall, bony figure in the alley by the time the angel and the demon escorted their trembling new friend back inside. It had not been there before. It would not be there long. The figure looked down at the scrap of consciousness on the flagstones, still impaled by the echo of a flaming sword, and a blue light brightened briefly in the sockets where Its eyes would be.

OH, Death said. IT'S YOU AGAIN.

* * *

The exorcism was quiet. Why wouldn't it be? _Loud_ was for chanting circles and carefully-mustered power. Loud was for communion, celebration, passion, courage.

Aziraphale needed none of these things.

Which meant that the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron were still too busy gadding about trying to get noticed by their new eleven-year-old celebrity to notice their return. This was just as well, because Aziraphale was still leaking power at the seams, and the stranger was so weak at the knees it was a miracle he hadn't fainted already. 

Oh, yeah, also Crowley. Crowley was high as a _kite._ No, more like an airplane! A spaceship! Okay, maybe not a spaceship. Spaceship would be more like that one time back in the fourth century BCE when they accidentally got caught up in a blast of divine inspiration and actually _discorporated_ as a result. It was almost like hearing the music of the spheres again, that they hadn't felt since the beginning. That glorious humming resonated in every cell of every bone in this fragile corporation, in every ring or brush of color outside of it, jarring, aching, _perfect._

They were still smoking from the sheer _holiness_ of it.

As a result, Crowley largely missed the rest of the conversation with the stranger. Quirinus Quirrell was his name, apparently, and he was still stuttering as he spoke and toying with the turban in blatant revulsion. It was in a bit of a dream that Crowley reached out and set the thing on fire, resulting in a grateful look from Quirinus, an annoyed one from Aziraphale, and a miracle on the angel's part to keep everyone else from noticing. Normally, Crowley could almost always sense the presence of a miracle after it was cast, if they looked, but right now they didn’t feel normal. This time, the sensation nearly overwhelmed them, vibrating along the raw, newly-singed nerves of their wings.  
Later, they would feel scorched and sore. Before that, but after the high wore off, the demonic nature of their own self would stand out all the starker and more miserably in comparison. Crowley did have very good reasons for trying _not_ to do this very often, even beyond the immediate "singed" effect, not least that it took the damage to their incorporeal being weeks to repair. But for the moment, Crowley remembered approximately zero of these reasons.

"We should do this more often, Zira, I'm ssserious!" they burbled. The next step felt about two inches longer than it should have been, and Crowley swayed dangerously to one side.

The angel caught them. There was amusement on that face, they could tell, or in that aura at least, that beautiful, overwhelming aura. But first and foremost was patience, at the moment, and behind those a snatch of annoyance and an uncomfortably large dash of worry. Unacceptable.  
"Crowley," Zira said sternly. "I'm trying to open the wall. There's a specific way you're supposed to do it, you know, and I haven't been here in a very long time!"   
"Jussss' open it, Zira," Crowley whined. "You don't need to do it the same way, you can just _whooosh_ !" their arms spread wide, knocking into the chain fence on one side. "And open it!"   
"Yes, dear, but _Harry_ needs to be able to open it by himself eventually."   
"So Harry can miracle it open, too! It's already a door, not like it's hard."   
"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "He can't _do_ that yet!" _:If ever.:_ Zira added mentally _. :He's a human, remember?:_ _  
_ Crowley didn't stop the giggle from escaping their mouth. It always tickled, hearing someone in their head like this. How did they not notice, normally? But then the angel started to pout, and Crowley did their best to rein themself in. "Sorry, sorry. I don't know what the code is, I normally just miracle it, now that that fellow back in the 18th came up with the whole space-bending setup and I can't fly over it into the wizarding quarter anymore. Why not ask… whosawhatsit, you know, the guy—"   
"Quirinus?" That was definitely amusement, now. Crowley sighed and leaned in, snuggling their head down against their angel's shoulder. Even with Aziraphale keeping himself relatively contained, it still felt like an electric shock to touch in this state, particularly skin-to-skin. They did it anyway, because they adored their angel and they needed cuddles, and also they _liked_ this bubbly feeling and wanted it to go on longer.   
"Oh, very well. Quirinus!" Zira called. The man was drifting again, only a few feet away. "As you can see, I'm rather encumbered at the moment," he lied. "Would you mind showing Harry how the portal works?"

Those fearful eyes jolted from Zira, to Harry, and back again. To Crowley and Zira's great gratification, Quirinus was much less worshipful of Harry than almost everyone else. It made sense. Lily Potter's sacrifice certainly hadn't done that much for him, given the fact that he'd apparently spent almost the past _year_ being puppeted around by Voldemort. Instead, he was just a very nervous man, toward… well, everyone, really. He was even properly respectful of Zira, which Crowley very much approved of, even if the angel found it annoying.   
So Quirinus darted forward, taking a small, polished stick from a holster at his hip in trembling hands. How did he cast spells, if he had such trembling hands? He _was_ supposed to be the Defense teacher, wasn't he? But he tapped one particular brick three times with the wand, and the brick wall slowly opened up, it _bloomed_ into— a street! Crowley giggled into their angel's shirt. _They_ could have made a flower out of a street, back before everything went. If they'd ever come across such things as _bricks_ and _streets_ in the beginning of things.

Harry looked absolutely gobsmacked.

"Come on, dear," Aziraphale peeled himself away despite Crowley's groans, escorting poor Harry through the doorway. "Thank you Quirinus. And Harry?" The sparkling love in the angel's eyes was blinding for Crowley as they stumbled along behind. "Welcome to Diagon Alley."

It was only because Quirinus was still wandering behind them like a lost puppy that Crowley was not the last one through the doorway. As it was, the bricks trembled pointedly when they finally passed through, and hurried back into position when the nervous human followed. The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop, and Crowley darkened their sunglasses by several shades. Ugh. Actual light. _Holy_ light didn't make their eyes ache like— okay actually no, holy light hurt worse. They just didn't care.   
"Now, I believe you will be needing one of those, Harry, but we must visit Gringotts first." Aziraphale put his arm around Crowley when they caught up, smiling quite pleasantly at their godchild. "I'm not sure about Crowley but I, at least, don't believe I have anything that currently counts as legal tender within Diagon Alley. I'm told the goblins are happy to exchange currencies."

And then they were walking again. Crowley started to turn into a snake— it was much easier to cuddle while walking in that form, after all— but Aziraphale interrupted them, pulling them into a brief, chaste kiss instead. _:Not right now, dear. There are humans watching, remember?:_

"Ah, this must be the place!" 

Crowley looked up.

Crowley looked further up.

It was quite a tall building, Gringotts Wizarding Bank. White and bronze and towering, vaguely reminiscent of the Leaning Tower of Pisa in appearance where the spatial warping magic that hid all of wizarding London distorted the image of it. Very impressive. And furthermore, not a thing about it had changed since they last visited twenty years ago. Even the inscription was the same, and Crowley had been there when the goblins were coming up with it back in 1865, just after they were given back full official control of the bank. They had not been terribly subtle about this particular message, at the time. Honestly, _"Those who take, but do not earn/ Must pay most dearly in their turn."_? Such a blatant fuck you to the Wizengamot, Crowley was genuinely thrilled that they'd gotten away with it. 

“Good afternoon," Aziraphale smiled at the goblin at the door. He asked for directions, and walked off to the counter, Quirinus and Harry trailing in his wake.

Crowley sighed. Slid to the lovely marble floor. "Okay, I guess that is a bit much," they mumbled. "Cuddling up to Aziraphale, and being messed up in the head, _and_ having to actually move around and do things. What do you think?"   
Surprise splashed across the goblin's face, overriding blatant irritation. "You speak our language?" She, apparently. The goblin had chosen the feminine-subject, neuter-object declension for the word _language._ Crowley liked how Gobbledegook handled gender. They could do things like refer to themself as the gender-neutral subject of a sentence and as feminine when they were the object, even within the same word of the same sentence, and it was understood. Gobbledegook had a lot of room for nuance that way.   
Crowley gave a snort. "'Course I do. Why not? I've spent plenty of time with goblins, miss, and I like learning. Besides, it's hard to stir up revolution when you don't actually know the language people'll be revolting _in._ " Aziraphale, on the other hand, just cheated and used their celestial ability to understand and be understood, and make people _think_ he was speaking their language. It was easier, certainly, to do that. But Crowley's work demanded subtlety, and subtlety required an actual understanding of the language and its literary devices, which meant they actually needed to _learn_ those things.

The guard blinked. Those expressive eyebrows narrowed, a plain sign of suspicion. "Who are you stirring up, mage? The treaty is a passable deal as it is for now, and the witches and wizards still outnumber us greatly." She paused. "And why are you on the floor?"  
"Oh, don't worry. I'm retired, now. No more stirring up necessary, and I happen to _like_ you guys, so if I do try and tempt you into rebellion, it won't be until I think you actually have a chance of winning instead of just getting slaughtered by the thousands." Crowley smirked when the guard looked only more suspicious. "Honestly," they added, "No tricks. By my love and my craft, I swear it."   
It was probably that very Goblin expression that did it, _by my love and my craft._ The guard relaxed a little, with a huff of annoyance. "Again, why are you on the floor?"

"What, this floor?" Crowley stretched out onto their back, reveling in the cool stability of the stuff. For the first time since they caught all that energy from the exorcism, the world was staying _still._ Mostly. "Just looking at it," they lied. "Not half as complicated as the old Greek stuff, but you folks did a blessed good job making all the marble look all right anyway. Very focused, the design of it, and I do still _love_ the enchantments you've got underground, it's beautiful work. It's a real shame about the distortion outside."   
Those slightly widened eyes, from a goblin, was as good as a smile. That was by far the simplest way, Crowley had long since learned, to befriend them a little: talk about crafts. Critique them, especially. Goblins respect a knowledgeable craftsperson, or a knowledgeable artist, who can give helpful critique, regardless of their actual skill level at the task. "Most of our work is not on the floor, friend."

* * *

By the time Aziraphale and Harry came back, Crowley was cheerfully joking with the guard from their spot stretched out on the floor. "And where's our little lost puppy?" they asked, as soon as their angel came into sight.

Aziraphale smiled. Oh, good. The irritation and worry were just about completely gone, now. That was one less thing for Crowley to fuss over. "Quirinus asked for a safe room from which he can take the emergency Floo to Hogwarts, after communicating with the Headmaster. He should be well enough on his own, for now. I healed most of the damage from the possession in any case." The angel bent forward to lift up Crowley's hand and press a kiss to their palm. "Come along. We have a whole list of shopping to do— though I suppose you can stay here if you like, my dear."  
Crowley grinned a sappy grin. "You see, Grizhna? _This_ is what I was talking about, I mean he practically glows even just standing here!" They rolled over and shoved themself to their feet, stumbling backward a bit from the momentum. They still didn't have their balance all the way back yet, which was annoying, but not nearly so bad as it had been before. "Can't you tell? Honestly, I'll be high for weeks at this rate!"   
It was Grizhna's turn to roll her eyes, an exaggerated, human motion. "He just looks like another mage to me, Crowley! Make him something nice and bring him back to me, _then_ maybe I'll consider you worthy of it."   
"Worthy of what?" Aziraphale looked bewildered, his brow furrowing a little in concern.   
"Tell you later, love." Crowley turned back to the goblin guard, and made a little salute. " _Zolhe, Grizhna._ I'll see you around. Love and craft!"   
There was that little wide-eyed pseudo-smile again, as Grizhna saluted the demon right back. " _Zolhe!"_ she answered. "Love and craft!"

_:Worthy?:_ Aziraphale pressed. "Worthy of _what,_ my dear?"   
It was wonderful, breathing in the scent of their angel again. "Hmm?" Crowley opened their eyes almost lazily, clinging to their angel's arm. It was rather sweet, the way they trusted him to lead even when they weren't looking. "Oh, that. Grizhna claims she has a positively _killer_ hangover cure and burn remedy, capable of healing anything. But she's a goblin, of course, and they have a bunch cultural things around giving gifts. Mages have always been real big on _taking_ things from them without permission, so they tend to be pretty hesitant to give mages in particular anything. And, y'know. I look like I'm just some mage. Wizard. Whatever."

"Oh." Aziraphale frowned.  
“We were joking about hangovers," the demon rambled, "and I mentioned how this one is _totally_ your fault, even though it's not, and gushed a bunch about how wonderful you are, and _she_ made a bet that you aren't actually literally glowing and everything like I was making you out to be, with a dose of that hangover cure if I won. Life partners are also real important to goblins, even the platonic ones, I mean it's one of the big ways they judge other people, socially and the like. And they all really value hand-crafted things, as a culture, even the shit ones, but I don't actually _craft_ anything except food, so I haven't given you anything hand-made that she can see. To a goblin, that looks like either I don't care, or you don't."   
“But that's not true at all!" The angel exclaimed.   
"I know, I know!" Crowley nuzzled up a little closer, their face resting right up against his neck in a way that couldn't possibly be comfortable. "And Grizhna knows too. I did say, I don't actually really make anything other than food, and you buy me things all the time, and I do things for you and— well, we're a different culture. She gets it. I'm not a goblin, I have different values, look for different things. And even if she doesn't understand our partnership," the demon pressed a little kiss to his beloved's neck, "I do. That's all that matters."

Aziraphale practically _cooed,_ at the contact. "Oh, alright, dear. I believe you. I was just worried, for a moment, that it was something a little more, ah… relevant."   
"Mmph."

"What language was that?!" Harry was once again by far the most energetic of the party, with Crowley finally winding down from the magical high. "I've never heard that language before!"  
"That was Gobbledegook, dear Harry. I believe Crowley has some books on it back at the shop, if you'd like to learn. The goblins speak it."   
"What, all of them?" Harry's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Didn’t Zira say there are goblins all over the world?"   
"There are, but they're all from the same original area," Crowley explained as they walked toward the first shop on their list. "Way back when, there were just a couple of small, autonomous countries of goblins up in the Stanovor Mountains— that's eastern Russia, a bit north of China, northeast of Mongolia. They were all in close contact through a bunch of cave systems and tunnels, though, so they all had the same language and a bunch of shared cultural stuff. Brilliant system, they actually had much better transportation infrastructure than most other human societies at the time." They stuck their hands in their pockets, then stumbled, snatching their hands back out to brace themself on Aziraphale's shoulder.   
"Round about I think 500 BCE, some wizards came up from China or India or something, or maybe elsewhere in Siberia, I don't know, and took the whole place over to get to the precious gems found in the area. Scattered the goblin nations, turned them out, a bunch of people died and whole traditions of arts and magic got wiped out in the process."   
Crowley continued walking. They were barely even paying attention to their mouth, now, focusing more on their feet and letting the words roam as they would. "Between that and the way they'd been forced out of their homes and into poverty, well, bam! Now you've got an underclass. Wasn't long before folks started trying to enslave goblins, and pass laws preventing supposedly non-human magic-users from using wands or going to school and, y’know, and whatnot. It really is just another kind of racism.” They rolled their eyes. “ It's not even, oh what’s-the-word, speciesism. Goblins are officially categorized as humans up Above, and they've got free will and the same sort of indestructible soul and suchlike as the rest of you. They're just specialized for caves." The demon paused, looking between Harry and Aziraphale. "I'm rambling, aren't I?"   
Harry snickered. Thankfully, the kid didn't seem to notice that slip about Heaven, even though Crowley hadn't realized they said it for a good several seconds.

"You are, my dear." Aziraphale pressed a gentle kiss to the top of their head. "But that's alright," he added brightly, "because it's got us to our first real stop on the list! Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. For the uniform. Now, they have male uniform and a female uniform, but from what I can tell, the main difference is that the girls are allowed to wear a uniform skirt instead of trousers, though there may be a few other minor tailoring differences. Which one would you like, Harry?"  
"You can always do both," Crowley put in. "You're meant to have several sets anyway, you don't have to commit to one or the other."   
Harry did actually appear to think about it, briefly. Harry never really had seemed terribly interested in genderplay, or gender at all, even though he was pretty comfortable by now with Crowley's fluidity. "I'm a boy," he shrugged at last. "I'm fine with trousers.” He paused again, hesitating. “Maybe one skirt though, if that's alright? As an extra? It's just that I haven't really tried wearing a skirt before, except maybe when I was really little. And I’d worry that people would be weird about it."   
That got a wince out of both adults, though they buried it quickly.   
"Whatever you'd like, dear."

* * *

  
Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve.   
"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Harry and company reached the counter. "Got the lot here— another young man being fitted up just now, in fact." In the back of the shop, a white boy with a pointed face that rather reminded Harry of a very pale weasel stood on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long, black robes. Madam Malkin ushered Harry up onto a stool without so much as a glance at the two lurking guardians, slipped another robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," said the boy. "Hogwarts, too?"  
"Yes," said Harry. It was pretty funny, watching Crowley stalk from one end of the waiting area to the other, with the way they still kept leaning too far and almost falling. It was always weird, the way they moved, but this was worse than normal.   
"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. Harry did his best to tune it out. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll talk Father into getting me one anyway. It’s not like the school’s going to stop me."   
Harry's hands clenched into fists. _Just because he reminds me of Dudley,_ he thought, _doesn't mean anything bad'll happen. Zira's here, and Crowley. I don't have to hate him._ There was a long moment of silence marred only by one of the two tailors humming as she worked. Eventually, Zira put out a hand to stop Crowley's frenetic pacing. They looked each other in the eye for a few seconds, probably having one of those silent conversations of theirs. And then Crowley smirked, and sauntered out the door while Zira gave a smug little smile. Harry liked that smug little smile. Zira had a plan, when he smiled that smile, and it was pretty much always a fun one.

“Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.  
"No," said Harry.   
"Play Quidditch at all?"   
"No," Harry said again. He knew what Quidditch was, vaguely, from the brochures. Hogwarts had a very competitive team apparently, or rather a very competitive four teams. It looked more than a little bit overcomplicated to him.   
"I do—" the boy was clearly bragging. "Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"   
"No," said Harry. He'd read over the descriptions, of course. Slytherin might be interesting, and something told him that might be the House Aziraphale would end up in. Well. By _something_ he meant Crowley, Crowley would probably stick Zira in Slytherin. Or maybe Ravenclaw. "I do think it's a little silly, though, to try and define people like that when they're only eleven. Aren't the teenage years supposed to be this big major time of change and… and whatnot?" That was how his godparents had phrased it at least, during the very awkward puberty talk last spring. Change and… whatnot. 

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been— imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"  
Harry frowned. Maybe there was more to the differences between Houses than the brochures had said? He truly couldn't fathom why anyone would care that much, to be honest, much less actually _leave_ over something as simple as a House assignment. Or maybe it really just was something about this other boy, that he had something against Hufflepuffs. Not that that cleared much of anything up. At least he now knew he probably didn’t want to end up in Slytherin after all, if being in that House would mean he had to spend time with this kid.   
"Who are those… _people_ you came in with?"   
Now _that_ was a tone which Harry remembered. "What do you mean?" He carefully kept looking straight ahead, in the hopes that the anger wouldn't come through in his voice. Maybe he'd misinterpreted, after all, maybe—   
"Are those your parents? They aren't _Muggles,_ are they?"

Harry blinked _. Muggles_ ? He thought _. Why does that matter to anything? This kid certainly seems to think it matters_ . He kept looking forward. "My dads aren't Muggles," he finally answered. Maybe he would reveal more, now.   
"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you?" The boy sniffed. And then he squawked, when the tailor 'accidentally' stabbed him with a pin. "They're just not the same, they don’t know our ways," he continued. "Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine! I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?"   
_Ah_ , Harry felt an instant, burning dislike spring up inside him _. That's why it matters_ . But before he could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down from the footstool.   
"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the white boy.

* * *

Harry was quiet when he got back to Zira.  
Crowley, sadly, was still gone. He would have liked to talk to Crowley about this. "You know," Harry tried to keep his voice light despite the gnawing discomfort in his gut. "Somehow I'd hoped there might not be so much racism here, but I guess I should have known better."

Zira's sigh was a sad one. "I'm sorry, dear. I was going to interfere, but— well, I wasn't sure I was hearing him correctly, and you will need to be able to handle this sort of thing without me, at school."

They wandered out of the shop, Zira staring off into space as he continued. "The wizarding community in Europe… it wasn't always so bad on this front. But in the past couple of centuries, they seem to have let go of some of their hangups over skin color in exchange for worrying over magical ancestry instead. It's easier for them to pretend it's not simply racism, as most of the proof documenting that there is no difference in magical ability between those from magical families and those from non-magical families was destroyed thanks to the Interdict of Merlin."  
One hand drifted down to brush the hair from Harry's face. "Many of the great wizards of old were not white — Merlin himself was a person of color, did you know that? — and the wizarding community is too small and too well-connected for them to ignore it. So they chose another group to hate instead." Zira chewed at his lower lip, staring into the distance.   
“Um," said Harry.   
"Right!" his guardian clapped his hands, returning to the present. "Let's do something a little less glum now, shall we? What was next on the list? I think I saw a bookshop across the street, perhaps they'll have your textbooks there, what were they again? And perhaps we won't even have to talk to anyone!"


	12. Tools of the Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley take Harry to get his wand.

It only took about ten minutes for Harry to acquire his textbooks.

Flourish and Blotts was a well-organized store, even if it was currently full of kids and families, so they got through it pretty quick. Besides, after the pub Zira and Crowley had done a quick bit of magic to make it so he wouldn't be recognized. Harry was glad. It was really awkward, having to shake hands with that many people, and kinda gross. And fortunately, this particular bookshop was stocked mostly with Hogwarts textbooks at the moment, which meant that for once, Zira hadn’t disappeared into the stacks by the time Harry got to the counter.

Though even he could see how Zira kept gazing wistfully at the more quiet-looking Obscurus Books across the street. It did seem to be more his style. Harry was willing to bet that if Zira went in there, no one would see him for another week.

Fortunately for the sake of actually getting the school shopping done, Crowley was already standing outside when they left the bookshop. Harry's eyes lit up. "Ice cream!"   
"Yeah, yeah." Crowley's grin was wide and infectious. "I thought you might like it. Chocolate and pumpkin pie, about the most normal flavors they've got at Florean's." When Harry had the cone in hand, Crowley ruffled his hair and handed another one to Zira. "And a sweet pear-and-mushroom sundae for you."   
"Oh, lovely! Thank you, dear!"   
Harry giggled. Zira didn't even seem to notice, he was so absorbed by the ice cream, but Crowley was just  _ gazing  _ at him all adoringly while he ate. It was cute. Harry led his guardians over to a table and sat down. Even then, Crowley kept staring, though they slung an arm around Harry, too. They weren't normally quite so obvious about it— but then Harry became well and truly ensconced in his ice cream, and in people-watching. There were so many strange people! At least half the people in the Alley were dressed in some sort of robe thing, like from Madam Malkin's, usually with a funny hat. Often with a Halloween witch's hat. Between all those dark colors and jewel tones on the clothing and the riot of color that flooded the crowded shops, there was more than enough to look at, especially when Crowley snapped their fingers and one witch’s hatpin snagged on another’s hair, leading to a ruckus that left Harry helpless with giggling.

Crowley frowned. Their fingers drummed the table for a moment, and Harry caught Zira pausing in what had to be concern.   
"Are you alright, dear?"   
They just kept staring off into the distance as if they hadn't heard a thing, letting the seconds tick by in awkward silence. Their hand stilled.    
That was weird enough for Harry grow tense, eyes flicking from one guardian to the other. Crowley  _ never  _ ignored Zira.    
Zira's face tightened. "Crowley," his voice was quiet, but firm. "Talk to me." He reached across the table, fingers  _ almost  _ brushing against his partner's before he withdrew, more hesitant in the gesture than Harry ever really saw him. "Please? I don't know what's going through your head here, I never have this problem. I don't want you to— you know."

Nothing.   
Just as Harry started to worry, Crowley moved again _ , finally _ , hugging him close. They let out a slow, deep breath. "Sorry, loves," they murmured. "Think I just need to snake for a bit. And stick close to you, Zira, so I don't get too sucked in, y'know."   
"So it's a… hangover thing, from the magic?" Zira fidgeted with his sleeves.    
"Stars, I wish I could just vanish this hangover like all the rest." They rolled their eyes, the gesture exaggerated so it could be seen through the ever-present sunglasses. "Yeah. Er." Crowley glanced over at where Harry leaned. His questions were written all over his face, apparently, because Crowley squirmed and tried to explain. "My magic and Aziraphale's don’t mix too well, sometimes. Or really, uh. I don't always work well with their magic, the two are fundamentally incompatible. Zira doesn’t have a problem. 's why I was a little loopy earlier, but now the happy silly stage is wearing off and the depressed stage is kicking in."

That didn't sound like any fun at all.   
But Crowley ran their hand through Harry's hair with a smirk, and continued. "Don't worry about it, snakelet. I'll be fine. Snakes don't really do depression like humans do, so I'll just turn into a snake and cuddle with Zira for a bit. There's a reason we try not to mix like that, is all." And then they stood, carefully disentangling themself from Harry, and sauntered off to the alley next to the nearest shop, marked Oculus Close. Before long, a tiny black snake came slithering out.   
Harry giggled when he felt those familiar scales on his ankle, sneaking up the outside of his trouser leg and under his jacket to poke their head out of his sleeve. Their tongue fluttered in the air. Harry took the opportunity to scratch Crowley's chin gently before they slithered onto the table and over to Aziraphale, who offered them a hand with a loving smile. " _ Much better,"  _ they hissed, twining themself into their partner's collar. " _ Warm. Now come on, I want to see Harry get his wand."  _

* * *

The last shop was narrow and shabby.

Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. A magic wand! No matter what Crowley said, this was what Harry had been really looking forward to.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside.

It was a tiny place, empty on this side of the ancient, scarred counter except for a single, rather sad chair. It had that same feeling around it as the bookshop, of being cozy and distinctly hostile to intruders, all at once. Much like the bookshop, even the very dust seemed to prickle with magic, and knowledge, and _ power.  _ Zira would be bound to like it. Harry certainly did.

“Good afternoon," said a soft voice.

Harry jumped. Zira must have been startled, too, because he caught a quick intake of breath beside him.

An old man stood before them as if out of nowhere, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," said Harry awkwardly.

"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter."    
It wasn't a question.    
"You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. 

Harry wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. They didn't even  _ resemble  _ something that shouldn’t be blinking, like Crowley's did, they were just… there. Two pieces of night sky trapped in human eyes, that Harry could nearly have  _ sworn  _ were glowing in the dim light of the shop.   
"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand."    
Mr. Ollivander didn't seem to notice how close he was getting, or how uncomfortable Harry felt. "Eleven inches," he muttered. "Pliable. A little more power, and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it— it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course." The old man peered at him, and Harry was willing to bet that Mr. Ollivander saw in that glance everything there was to know. His knobbly finger lifted, and touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead lightly, every ounce of his attention fixed on Harry before he spoke again. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," Ollivander whispered. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

“ _ You ssstill would've done it." _ _   
_ Harry jerked back. He hadn't noticed Crowley, he'd been so absorbed in those silver eyes. But here they were, still a snake, poking around Harry's neck until their head hovered nose-to-nose with Mr. Ollivander.

The old man looked briefly delighted. "Crawly! Or Crowley, isn't it now? How nice to see you again… You're the one who commissioned that staff, and brought your own wood. Five feet eight inches, yew and manchineel with silver inlays… the silver tarnished the moment you tested it, as I recall, and that's  _ still _ the only time I've ever worked with manchineel. How is that staff of yours?"   
_ "Broken now,"  _ the little snake hissed. Wasn't it Crowley who insisted magic needed no tools in the first place? What were they doing with a staff?  _ "Not your fault. It did itss bessst." _ _   
_ "I still can't speak Parseltongue, you know." Mr. Ollivander finally took a step back, casting his gaze over the rest of the shop. "I assume someone here can translate for you? Since, evidently, you don’t want to switch to a language I understand."

Zira sighed. "Crowley says the staff is broken, and that it's not your fault, the staff did its best." His hands were clasped behind him, but Zira's eyes surveyed the shop with what Harry  _ thought  _ he recognized as discomfort. At least he wasn't the only one who found little Mr. Ollivander disconcerting. "You may call me Fell," he answered the question before Mr. Ollivander could ask it. " _ Mr _ . Fell, if you must. We're here for a wand for our godson Harry, so he can continue learning magic. Perhaps we can get on with it?"

Mr. Ollivander would not be rushed. "Are you certain?"

The half a meter of space separating him from Aziraphale seemed to shrink to bare inches, though neither of them moved. "You remind me of Crowley very much. I could make you something  _ beautiful,  _ an athame perhaps, or a wand? Yes, a blade would suit you well. It would have to be built special, of course, so it could work  _ with  _ you in the way ordinary tools do not, and I could collaborate with the goblins for the metalworking—" the wandmaker's breath caught, but Zira's face had not moved a muscle.   
"No," Mr. Ollivander backed off at last. Harry was glad to feel the pressure drain out of the room, even if it meant he would be the next recipient of that laser-sharp attention. "I can see you are not interested. Fair enough," the old man's smile was a toothy one, jarring in the dust of the shop. At least it broke the mood.   
  


"Well, now— Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"   
"Er— well, I'm right-handed," stammered Harry. Did wizards have different words for  _ everything? _   
"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he talked. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. The same applies to staves and the like, of course, they just aren't very often seen in Britain nowadays. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such excellent results with another wizard's wand."   
Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes. And Crowley had tucked themself back into Harry's clothing somewhere out of the way, which was reassuring. They were the one who'd been here before. If they didn't see a danger, Harry felt pretty comfortable convincing himself he'd be alright. Even if he'd  _ thought  _ Crowley was planning to snuggle up to Zira, when they first came in.   
"That will do," the old man said, and the tape measure flew to the desk where it crumpled in a heap. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harry took the wand and held it up to his forehead first, where he always found it easiest to feel magic in other things. Nothing. He gave it a quick wave just in case, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.   
"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try—" Harry would have tried, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it back as soon as it touched him. "No, no," the old man muttered. "Here. Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Harry tried. And tried. This whole thing was, well, trying! He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. Some wands felt inert as rock in his hands, others hummed with energy and sent wand cases flying off the shelves when he touched them, still others flickered and  _ bit  _ him on contact. The pile of tried wands, at least a dozen high, spilled off the desk and onto the floor. They kept staring at him, Harry thought, rather malevolently.   
"Tricky customer, eh?"   
If anything, Mr. Ollivander looked even happier than before, perched atop a very high and spindly ladder near the back of his shop. "Not to worry," he called, "we'll find the perfect match around here somewhere!"

Harry cast a dubious glance back at Aziraphale. There he stood, perfectly still, waiting with polite attention— but those creases at the sides of his mouth were worry, and that look in his eyes was definitely annoyance.   
"I wonder…" Mr. Ollivander came muttering back to them, turning a box over and over in his hands. "Yes, why not. It likes symmetry, doesn't it?" That gnarled face pointed up, and Harry stopped trying to pretend the old man wasn't talking. "Unusual combination— holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple." The moons shone brighter than ever in his eyes, and when Mr. Ollivander opened the box, his words were barely a whisper. "Go on."

Harry peered inside.

The wand was nothing special to look at. Pale, warm wood rounded at the end, and grey bark covering the handle, with no particular decorations. The whole room seemed to fade out of focus when he saw it, but he took it anyway in wary fingers.

_ Oh _ .

The wand was.…warm, somehow.

Not just that, it flooded his whole arm with static when he touched it, that strange and tingling feeling like when he'd learned to light a candle from his fingertip, but this was  _ better.  _ Harry raised the wand above his head on automatic, and waved it around— and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, lighting up the shop.

"Oh, bravo!" Mr. Ollivander cried. "Yes, indeed, oh, very good!"

Zira grinned and applauded, and even Crowley hissed surprise at the magic, and coiled down Harry's wrist to investigate. Harry breathed a breath of wonder. If he'd known it would feel this  _ soft,  _ this good…   
But then the shop was small and shady again, and Mr. Ollivander muttered to himself as he started putting the other boxes back. "Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"   
"Sorry," said Harry. "But what's curious?"   
He was not sorry. The muttering creeped him out, and this time at least he felt he should know what the old man said. Besides, he had a wand now, and it felt like sunlight in his hand. He was immune to the troubles of back alley shops and spooky shopkeepers with too much dust on the windows and not nearly enough light.

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.   
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter." His words fell into place like a puzzle. "Every - single - wand." There was a pause while the shopkeeper slotted a box back in its place. "It just so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather— just  _ one _ other. It is very  _ curious  _ indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother— why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry swallowed.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches," Mr. Ollivander puttered about as though he hadn't just set an inexplicable bowling ball of dread in his stomach. "Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember…"

That voice could have been in a dictionary, filed under serenity. And then the old man continued, and serenity was replaced by something darker. "I think we must expect  _ great things  _ from you, Mr. Potter… After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things— terrible, yes! But great."

Harry shivered. The solid sunlight in his hand didn't feel quite so powerful, next to this.

"I don't think you need to worry about this Voldemort, anymore." Zira pressed a hand to Harry's shoulder, and that was much better. Harry relaxed. "He's dead, or reduced enough to pose only negligible trouble. Has been for years. You talk like this choice of wand is putting Harry in, in opposition to Voldemort in some way, and we don't want that. Is there any other way to read it?"   
Mr. Ollivander shrugged. "Inverse or identical. The magic likes symmetry, in this as in all things. It doesn't care what you think about it. Perhaps it simply means that Harry is his successor, in that he was the catalyst of this Dark Lord's defeat. That's seven galleons for the wand."

Zira gave him the coins, and Mr. Ollivander wrote out a receipt on a little piece of paper by hand, and a second in his logs. It all seemed so mundane, now, except the coins were made of gold and there was sunlight in his hand. "Hmm. Yes, I suppose it couldn't hurt. One more thing—" The shopkeeper hesitated, and glanced at where Crowley had moved back to Zira again. "There's trouble brewing, Mr. Potter. Mark my words, yes. Trouble. Keep your guardians… close." 


	13. When the Owl Sings

"Right," Zira's voice was reassuring in the light of day as they walked out of the musty wand shop. "I believe Crowley and I had one more stop in mind, today, if you feel up for it."

Harry blinked. "This is everything on the school list." It wasn't too hard to carry, either, stacked into a grocery bag magicked to stay light.   
"I know, dear." Zira smiled when Crowley's head poked out of his sleeve, and paused to stroke their chin. "But we thought perhaps we'd get you an early, extra birthday present as well, if you wish.  _ Only  _ if you wish. A pet is a big responsibility!"   
A.…pet?!   
He gasped. "I want a pet!"   
" _ Not so fast,"  _ Crowley hissed, sounding amused. " _ Like Zira said, it's a big responsibility. If you want a pet, you have to be ready to take care of it, even when we're not there." _ _   
_ "You'll have help, of course," came the addition. "Crowley and I, when you're at the shop with us, if nothing else. And I believe the school has some measures in place, since it encourages students to bring their pets. But still, you won't always have that help. So whatever pet you choose,  _ if  _ you choose— you understand."

Harry did take a long moment to think about it. A cat, maybe, would be nice. He liked the creatures when it wasn’t Mrs. Figg showing him endless pictures and getting hair on everything. But he didn't really  _ want  _ a cat. A snake? But getting a snake would feel rather silly, what with Crowley about. A dog? He didn't really like the thought of having to take it for walks all the time, though, and it didn't sound like people really brought dogs to Hogwarts. He really did want a pet, though.   
"Er.…" Zira paused. "Crowley dear? Perhaps you should duck back inside Ollivander's or something, and change back to human shape. There are rather a lot of owls where we're going, who might take an, ah, unhealthy interest in your current form. And I don't think the humans would appreciate your simply growing larger. Unless you'd rather stay tucked in with me? You are the one who actually, ah, knows how to take care of animals."   
" _ I… suppose." _ _   
_ "We're headed for Eeylop's Owl Emporium. Meet you there?"   
And then Crowley sighed a little snakey sigh. " _ Yeah. Meet you there." _

It would be an understatement, Harry decided, to call the interior of Eeylop's Owl Emporium messy. Birds and cats in cages, squawking and chirping and under no circumstances getting along. Rats, toads, snakes and scaly things of all description sitting in terrariums— and the whole place had a faintly musty stink, like something dry and desiccated had long since fallen in a crack and disappeared. Still. The cages were clean, and the animals looked healthy, even if most of them were either asleep or pretty clearly irritable. Probably it was sitting in this crowded room full of humans that did it.   
"CROOKSHANKS!" someone shrieked, and a large ginger blur darted out of the back room. Swerving right and left, it knocked over an entire table of assorted pet treats before ramming through the door and onto the street as someone opened it. An exhausted-looking shop hand panted just the near side of the curtain into the back. "Bloody kneazle cross," he muttered. "That creature's no end of trouble. Still," the man sighed, raising his voice a little now that he had his breath back. "I'm sure he'll return eventually, the clever thing. I just hope it'll be someone else's job to bathe him when he gets into a mess this time."   
Harry giggled. He'd met cats like that. Only the real troublemakers were ever willing to get near Crowley.

"That was… definitely something." Crowley leaned against the doorframe, almost windswept in the cat's wake. That was probably just general untidiness from being a snake so recently, though the little button with the words  _ he/him  _ was new, and Crowley was in a different outfit. He smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Hey snakelet, what do you think? You want that one?"   
"Crowley!" Harry lunged excitedly at his other godparent, who laughed and swept him up in a hug.   
"I've been here the whole time, love, what's this for?"   
"I just wanted to hug you! You looked tired." Harry knew perfectly well that his grin, when it came to his godparents, was infectious. "Come on, I want to go look in the night room, with the owls and bats! I don't think I've ever seen an owl in real life before."   
Sure enough, Crowley mustered up a smile. "Alright then. Y'know, I bet Zira'll be more the one to talk to in there, they've always liked owls. 'Course, the birds also don't run screaming from me, so I suppose that's alright." Nevertheless, when Harry pushed through the crowded shop, both godparents followed. 

_ “Oh…"  _ Zira breathed. "Oh, how  _ lovely!" _

Harry blinked, and blinked, and finally his eyes adjusted.   
Where the main room of the shop had been chaos, this room was the opposite. It wasn't dark, exactly, but distinctly dim, lit only by a handful of cool white lights along the walls that had to be magic. The place was lined with perches and things that looked like birdhouses, only with slots instead of holes. Furry silhouettes fluttered to and fro, or congregated on great big bird feeders, squeaking all the while.   
And then— Harry laid eyes on an owl. One  _ specific  _ owl, hopping its way through the passage between the dark room and the rest of the shop, easily the largest one in sight, such a bright white that it almost seemed to glow in the relative darkness. The bird looked at Harry through bright yellow eyes that rivaled Crowleys. Paused. Its beak opened and it chittered a greeting.

"Hello," Harry whispered.

The bird jumped, wings spread, to land on Zira's head.

"Get off of there!" The dark room attendant exclaimed. "I'm so sorry sir, they're supposed to be trained better, I can get her off for you."

"No, no, don't fret, dear, I don't mind." With a patient smile, Zira extended one arm and churred softly— and the owl stepped delicately onto his sleeve instead and then his hand, mostly avoiding getting tangled up in his hair. She didn't take her eyes off Harry. "Harry, my dear. Would you like to say hello?" The owl's head bobbed to one side, then the other while Harry took a slow step forward. "Like this," Zira opened his mouth and made a churring sound.   
Harry did his best to imitate it. It wasn't a fantastic attempt, but the owl jerked backward a little, turning her head over to Zira and back, as if asking him something. Harry giggled. He reached out a reverent hand… and the owl butted her head into it, feathers fluttering at his touch. "She likes me!"   
"She certainly does." Crowley grinned, but he didn't get too close. He was already adorned by a couple of bats, poking at his hair. "Owls are pretty tough to take care of, like  _ really  _ tough. You can do it if you want, of course, but—”   
"I want to." Harry had never been this sure of anything in his life. "I want her."

"Is she…"    
The attendant nodded before Crowley even finished his question. "She's for sale, yeah. Three years old, snowy owl, magically born and raised. Fifteen galleons, comes with an owl care info packet and carrying cage. Have you kept owls before, sirs?"   
"We have," Aziraphale said. "Though it has been a while. We'll need all the ah, all the equipment. And some food, I suppose— no, owls eat live prey. We can deal with that easily enough. How is she with snakes?"   
"Nonaggressive, so long as they keep their distance." The attendant replied easily. "Like I said, she's wizard-raised, so she knows not to attack other common pets unless provoked. Except rats, if the rats are loose, she's never been good about that. We've been calling her Hedwig."

“Hedwig." The name seemed to fit, when Harry repeated it. "I like it."

After a moment's rummaging on the shelves along the wall, the attendant turned around with a wide, shallow wooden box. "Here we are. Our large owl care starter kit, it comes with jesses, falconry gloves, and a leash, a basic aviary suitable for one owl, dummy bunny, a perch, and a week's worth of petrified mice. Also a manual, which includes the spells to assemble the aviary, and of course, the box itself. 45 galleons for the kit."

Expensive. Harry felt a momentary pang of guilt, but his godparents didn't so much as falter. They just kept smiling and chatting while Zira fumbled with his wallet to hand over the money, and Crowley took hold of the box. It had to be enchanted, that box, to carry everything it was supposed to. Hedwig went cheerfully in her carry cage, which they gave to Harry, and then they were on their way home.

The puncture wounds on Zira's scalp from her talons were gone by the time they left the Alley.

And for once in his life, Harry couldn't _wait_ for school to start.


	14. Took The Midnight Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes to Hogwarts!

On September 1st, Harry woke at five o'clock in the morning and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his jeans because he didn't want to walk into the station in his new wizard's robes — he'd change on the train. Eventually he got tired of sitting on his bed and running through his Hogwarts list in his head, so he made his way to the living room. Zira was reading on the couch.   
Zira raised an eyebrow. "Awake early, I see!" he exclaimed. "Excited for the big day?”   
Harry nodded. "Is Crowley still asleep?"   
"Probably." Zira set his book down. "It's far too early to head to the station, my dear."

"I know." Harry went over and sat next to Zira on the couch, curling up against Zira's chest. The steady rise and fall of his godfather's chest was the perfect antidote to his nervous energy. He felt a hand brush gently through his hair, and he buried himself further into Zira's warmth. He was going to miss this. Listening to Zira's heartbeat in the pale morning light, Harry's eyes drifted closed.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, the light shining through the window was much brighter. He could still feel Zira's warmth surrounding him, and he heard the rustling of a page turning. "What time is it?" he mumbled.   
A hand brushed a stray lock of hair out of his face. "Eight o'clock, dear," Zira answered fondly. "I believe Crowley is making breakfast."   
Harry could smell the dough being fried. "Parathas?" he asked hopefully.   
Zira nodded. "They thought you'd appreciate it, since the food at Hogwarts will most likely be terribly British."

Harry felt a pang at the thought. He'd gotten used to Crowley's cooking. They'd lived all over the world, apparently, and it showed up in their cooking. They almost never cooked the same cuisine two days in a row. The only exception was Indian food, which they were determined to teach Harry how to cook at least the basics of, because it was one of the only ways he could feel connected to his birth family. Going back to only eating English food… it wouldn't be as bad as living with the Dursleys, Harry knew, but it still reminded him of those days.   
But there would be plenty of time to worry about that later. Right now, there were parathas to eat. Harry clambered off of the couch and headed to the kitchen.

* * *

Two hours later, Harry's huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into Crowley's Bentley, Zira had carefully loaded Hedwig's cage into the back seat next to Harry, and they had set off, Zira fussing to Crowley about their driving the entire way.

They reached King's Cross at a quarter past ten. Zira loaded Harry's trunk onto a cart and they made their way into the station.   
Zira paused, fumbling at his pockets. "Which platform was it again, dear?" he asked, pulling a ticket out of his pockets. Before Crowley could speak, he answered his own question. "Ah yes, nine and three-quarters."

_ Nine and three-quarters?  _ Harry wondered. They passed platform nine, and the next platform was number ten. Zira stopped at platform nine. "Now, I'm sure there's a way to get there, but I don't quite recall. Crowley, do you know the way?"   
Crowley strode forwards, heels clicking on the polished floor. Harry caught a glimpse of a forked tongue flicking out before being retracted. They smiled and pointed at the dividing barrier between the two platforms. "Look there, angel. Neat little gateway, isn't it?"

Zira looked at the barrier. For a moment, Harry wondered how many eyes he had. Then he blinked and the extra eyes were gone, and Harry wondered if he had seen it at all. He filed the incident away into the little corner of his mind that was full of the many weird things he’d noticed about his godparents, although it was more like the spare chair he dumped his laundry on than a filing cabinet. Zira beamed. "Ah, so it is!"

"How does it work?" Harry asked.

Crowley smiled. "All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. But don't stop, or be scared that you'll crash into it. It works because you believe it will work. If you think it's just an ordinary wall, well, it'll be just an ordinary wall. Clever disguise, really. You can only walk through it if you believe that you can."

Harry eyed the wall dubiously. It looked pretty solid to him.

Crowley ruffled his hair. "Will it help if I go first? Here, watch this." They sauntered easily towards the barrier, and the moment Harry thought they would run right into it, they just… disappeared.

"Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous," Zira murmured from behind. "Go on."

Harry swallowed, but nodded. He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on their way to the platforms. Harry walked more quickly. He was going to smash right into the barrier and then he'd be in trouble — leaning forwards, he broke into a heavy run — the barrier was coming nearer and nearer — he wouldn't be able to stop, he had too much momentum — he was a foot away — he closed his eyes ready for the crash —

It didn't come… he kept on running… he opened his eyes.

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven o'clock. Harry looked behind him and saw Crowley leaning up against a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words  _ Platform Nine and Three-Quarters  _ on it.

"I knew you could do it," Crowley remarked with a smile. Zira emerged from the archway with the cart, Hedwig looking rather disgruntled from all the crowds. "Now, come give me a hug before you leave."

Harry buried his face in Crowley's shirt, squeezing his eyes shut. Their arms wrapped tightly around him, and he breathed in deeply, drinking in the familiar smells of cooking and greenery and the faint hint of fire that his godparent always had. "I'm gonna miss you," he mumbled into Crowley's chest. They squeezed him tighter for a moment, then let go.   
“You're going to make me go all ssssappy, sssnakelet," they said, but they didn’t mean it.   
Harry turned to hug Zira, burrowing into his godfather's sweater. Harry breathed in again, enveloped in Zira's softness. Zira smelled like old books and feathers, and his hugs felt like coming home. When he pulled away, Zira's eyes were glistening.

"No crying now, angel, if one of us cries we'll all start," Crowley said, but beneath their sunglasses their eyes were awfully shiny.

"It's not going to be forever," Harry said, his voice wobbling a little. "I'll be back for Christmas before you know it!"

Zira ruffled his hair. "That's right," he said, smiling shakily. "Well, we should let you get on with your big adventure! The train is boarding, you'll want to find a seat before it fills up."

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs, although they all gave Crowley a wide dearth. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. He pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty compartment near the end of the train. He put Hedwig inside first and then started to shove and heave his trunk toward the train door. He contemplated turning around and asking Zira for help, but he wanted to do it himself. He tried to lift it up the steps but could hardly raise one end and twice he dropped it painfully on his foot.

"Want a hand?" A tall, red-headed boy poked his head in from the next compartment over.

"Yes, please," Harry panted.

"Oy, Fred! C'mere and help!" In a few seconds, another, identical boy came over. With the twins' help, Harry's trunk was at last tucked away in a corner of the compartment.

"Thanks," said Harry, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes.

"What's that?" said one of the twins suddenly, pointing at Harry's lightning scar.

"Blimey," said the other twin. "Are you —?"

"He  _ is _ ," said the first twin. "Aren't you?" he added to Harry.

"What?" asked Harry.

" _ Harry Potter, _ " chorused the twins.

"Oh, him," said Harry. "I mean, yes, I am."

The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself turning red. Then, to his relief, a voice came floating in through the train's open door.

"Fred? George? Are you there?"

"Coming, Mum."

With a last look at Harry, the twins hopped off the train.

Harry sat down next to the window, where, half hidden, he could watch the people on the platform and hear what they were saying. Fred and George had been summoned by what was clearly their mother, a plump, authoritative woman followed by another boy and a girl, all with flaming red hair.

Their mother had just taken out her handkerchief.

"Ron, you've got something on your nose."

The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she grabbed him and began rubbing the end of his nose.

" _ Mom _ — geroff." He wriggled free.

"Aaah, has ickle Ronnie got somefin on his nosie?" said one of the twins.

"Shut up," said Ron.

"Where's Percy?" said their mother.

"He's coming now."

The oldest boy came striding into sight. He was already wearing his billowing black Hogwarts robes, and Harry noticed a shiny silver badge on his chest with the letter  _ P  _ on it.

"Can't stay long, Mother," he said. "I'm up front, the prefects have got two compartments to themselves — "

"Oh, are you a  _ prefect,  _ Percy?" said one of the twins, with an air of great surprise. "You should have said something, we had no idea."

"Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it," said the other twin. "Once —"

"Or twice — "

"A minute — "

"All summer —"

"Oh, shut up," said Percy the Prefect.

Harry decided he liked the twins.

"How come Percy gets new robes, anyway?" said one of the twins.

"Because he's a  _ prefect _ ," said their mother fondly. "All right, dear, well, have a good term — send me an owl when you get there."

She kissed Percy on the cheek and he left. Then she turned to the twins.

“Now, you two — this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl telling me you've — you've blown up a toilet or —"

"Blown up a toilet? We've never blown up a toilet."

"Great idea though, thanks, Mom."

In his compartment, Harry snickered quietly.

"It's  _ not funny _ . And look after Ron."

"Don't worry, ickle Ronniekins is safe with us."

"Shut up," said Ron again. He was almost as tall as the twins already and his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it.

"Hey, Mom, guess what? Guess who we just met on the train?"

_ Oh no, here we go again,  _ Harry thought to himself. He leaned back quickly so they couldn't see him looking.

"You know that black-haired boy who was having a hard time lifting his trunk up on the train?"

"And we helped him get it up, because we can be helpful sometimes? Know who he is?"

"Who?"

" _ Harry Potter! _ "

Harry heard the little girl's voice.

"Oh, Mom, can I go on the train and see him, Mom, oh please…"

"No, Ginny, the poor boy isn't something you goggle at in a zoo," the mother said, her tone sharp. "Is he really, Fred? How do you know?"

"Asked him. Saw his scar. It's really there — like lightning."

"Poor  _ dear _ — no wonder he was so alone —"

"There you are!" Zira's voice was a welcome interruption. Harry sat back up in his seat, smiling to see his godparents heading towards him through the window. "All settled in?"

He nodded. "Some older kids helped me get my trunk up, it's all put away now."

“Oh, excellent! I'm sorry I didn't realize you would need help," Zira said.

Harry shrugged. "S'alright, now I've met some people, so that's good. They got weird about me being Harry Potter though, like you said."

Crowley flashed a serpentine smile, laying an arm across Zira's shoulders. "Don't worry, it'll fade eventually. Or you'll make 'em stop."

A whistle sounded.

“You'll send us letters while you're away, won't you, dear?" Zira asked.

"I'll try," Harry promised.

"Don't worry too much about it though, you should be off having fun and learning things and not worrying about us," Crowley added. "It's nice to hear from you, but we're not gonna die of loneliness if you don't write us every week."

Harry grinned. "Alright."

The train began to move. Harry leaned out of the window to wave to his godparents, smiling to see them waving back. Harry saw the boys' mother waving and their sister, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train until it gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved.

Harry watched the people in the station disappear as the train rounded the corner. Houses flashed past the window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He didn't know what he was going to — but that was the whole point of adventures, wasn't it?

The door of the compartment slid open and the youngest red-headed boy came in.

"Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Harry. "Everywhere else is full."

Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He glanced at Harry and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn't looked. Harry saw that he still had a black mark on his nose.

"Hey, Ron." The twins were back. "Listen, we're going down the middle of the train — Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."

"Right," mumbled Ron.

"Harry," said the other twin, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then."

“Bye," said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them.

Ron continued stealing furtive glances at him.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" he blurted out finally.

Harry nodded.

"Oh — well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes," said Ron. "And have you really got — you know…"

He pointed at Harry's forehead.   
Harry pulled back his bangs to show the lightning scar. Ron stared.

"So that's where You-Know-Who -?"

"Yes," said Harry. He was already getting tired of this conversation. "But I can't remember it."

"Nothing?" said Ron eagerly.

"Well — I remember a lot of green light, but nothing else."

"Wow," said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments, then, as though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the window again.

"So… are all your family wizards?" asked Harry.

"Er — yes, I think so," said Ron. "I think Mom's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him"

The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding families the pale boy in Diagon Alley had talked about.

"I heard you went to live with Muggles," said Ron. "What are they like?"

Harry winced. "Horrible — well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin are. But I don't live with them anymore."

"Wait, you don't?"

Harry shook his head. "My godfathers adopted me, when I was eight."

Ron blinked. "Wait, are those the people you were saying goodbye to on the platform?" Harry nodded. "Are they Muggles?"

"Uh — no, but they're not really involved in the wizarding community here," Harry said. "And apparently they do things really differently from the way most wizards do things here, so I shouldn't expect what I learn in school to be very similar."

"How come they adopted you?"

"Just decided to, I guess, cause my aunt and uncle were so awful," he answered vaguely, as if that question hadn’t been bothering him for years, looking out the window. "So, you have two brothers? I always wish I had a sibling."

"Five," said Ron. For some reason, he was looking gloomy. "I'm the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left — Bill was head boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first. You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat."   
Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which was asleep.   
"His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being a prefect, but they couldn't aff — I mean, I got Scabbers instead."   
Ron's ears went pink. He seemed to think he'd said too much, because he went back to staring out the window.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with not being able to afford an owl," Harry said quietly. He wasn't sure if it was better to say something or to pretend he hadn't heard. "When I lived with my aunt and uncle, I wore my cousin's old clothes and shoes with holes in 'em and I never got proper birthday presents. And they  _ have _ money! My friend Will, his dad's out of work and his mum works at the pub and they've never had much, but his parents are great. His dad mends their clothes and makes lots of food and it's not fancy or anything but there's always plenty of it, and they're always trying to send me home with cookies or presents for my godfathers or whatever." Harry shrugged. "Point is, I reckon it's more how you use what you have that matters.”

Ron seemed to cheer up at that. Harry thought about his friends from school, Will and Jordan and Gracie. He didn't think he would miss them  _ too  _ much — it was good to have friends, he'd never had friends before, but even when they hung out every day he always felt a little out of place. Over the summer, he'd been happy enough not bothering to reach out, instead spending his time running around outside and making up stories in his head and getting his godfathers to teach him more magic.

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London. Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said, "Anything off the cart, dears?"   
Harry wasn't particularly hungry, but he was curious to see what snacks she had. Ron's ears went pink again and he muttered that he'd brought sandwiches. Harry went out into the corridor.

Nothing on the cart looked familiar. There were Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his life. He stared at the selection for a bit, then decided to ask Ron.

"I've never seen any of these in my life, what's good?"

"Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties if you're hungry, same with Cauldron Cakes, not too fond of licorice myself but if you like it I've heard the Licorice Wands are good. Every Flavor Beans are fun if you're up for a bit of an adventure," came the immediate response.

"Thanks!" Harry got two packs of Chocolate Frogs, one Cauldron Cake, a Pumpkin Pasty, and a package of Bernie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. His godparents had supplied him with a bunch of wizard money, so he wouldn't have to worry while he was at school.

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, "She always forgets I don't like corned beef."   
“I'll split these in half if you want," Harry offered, holding up the cake and the pasty. "I'm not really that hungry, I just wanted to try them."   
"You don't want this, it's all dry," said Ron. "She hasn't got much time," he added quickly, "you know, with five of us."   
"Go ahead, I don't think I'll be able to finish them on my own anyways," Harry said.

He nibbled on his pasty. Once he'd eaten a little, his stomach reminded him it had been a while since breakfast, and he ate with more enthusiasm. He finished off his halves of the cake and pasty, happy with the amount of food he'd gotten.

They shared a pack of Chocolate Frogs, Ron explaining the trading card system and Harry marveling at the moving photos. They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans, although it was indeed an adventure.

Eventually, a round-faced, tearful white boy knocked on their compartment door and asked if they had seen a toad. They shook their heads, and he moved on miserably.

“Don't know why he's so bothered," said Ron. "If I'd brought a toad I'd lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can't talk."

The rat was still snoozing on Ron's lap.

"He might have died and you wouldn't know the difference," said Ron in disgust. "I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more interesting, but the spell didn't work. I'll show you, look…"

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the end.

"Unicorn hair's nearly poking out. Anyway — "

He had just raised his wand when the compartment door slid open again. The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said. She had a bossy sort of voice, lots of bushy black hair, dark skin, and rather large front teeth.

"We've already told him we haven't seen it," said Ron, but the girl wasn't listening, she was looking at the wand in his hand.

"Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it, then."

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.

"Er — all right."

He cleared his throat.

_ “Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, _

_ Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow." _

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed grey and fast asleep.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" said the girl. "Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard — I've learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it will be enough — I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

She said all this very fast.

Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he hadn't learned all the course books by heart either.

"I'm Ron Weasley," Ron muttered.

"Harry Potter," said Harry.

"Are you really?" said Hermione. "I know all about you, of course — I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in  _ Modern Magical History  _ and  _ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts  _ and  _ Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. _ "

“Am I?" said Harry, feeling dazed.

"Goodness, didn't you know, I'd have found out everything I could if it was me," said Hermione.

Harry winced. "I try to avoid thinking about it. It's weird being famous for something that happened when I was a baby."

Hermione shook her head. "Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around, and I hope I'm in Ravenclaw, it sounds by far the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in Gryffindor, I suppose that wouldn't be too bad… Anyway, we'd better go and look for Neville's toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we'll be there soon."

And she left, taking the toadless boy with her.

"Whatever house I'm in, I hope she's not in it," said Ron. He threw his wand back into his trunk. "Stupid spell — George gave it to me, bet he knew it was a dud."

"What house are your brothers in?" asked Harry.

"Gryffindor," said Ron. "Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. "Mom and Dad were in it, too. I don't know what they'll say if I'm not. I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin."

“That's the house Voldemort was in?"

Ron gasped.

"What?" said Harry.

“ _ You said You-Know-Who's name!"  _ said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. "I'd have thought you, of all people —"

"Wait, are you not supposed to say his name?" Harry asked, confused.

"The only person I know who's brave enough to say You-Know-Who's name is Dumbledore himself," Ron said.

"Oh." Harry felt small. "I'm not trying to be  _ brave _ or anything, saying the name," he said, "I just never knew you shouldn't. See what I mean? I've got loads to learn… I bet," he added, voicing for the first time something that had been worrying him a lot lately, "I bet I'm the worst in the class." Everything he knew about magic was completely different from what he knew he'd been learning, and he knew basically nothing about the wizarding world in general. Not for the first time, he wished Zira and Crowley were more clued into the wizarding community.

"You won't be," Ron answered decisively. "There's loads of people who come from Muggle families and they learn quick enough."

They talked for a while about the wizarding community, Harry asking questions and Ron doing his best to answer them. Harry quickly learned that once Ron got started on the subject of Quidditch, he would keep going for ages — explaining all about the four balls and the positions of the seven players, describing famous games he'd been to with his brothers and the broomstick he'd like to get if he had the money. He was just taking Harry through the finer points of the game when the compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn't Neville the toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this time.

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once: it was the pale boy from Madam Malkin's robe shop.

He was looking at Harry with a lot more interest than he'd shown back in Diagon Alley.

"Is it true?" he said. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. Both of them were tall and sturdy and looked extremely mean. Standing on either side of the pale boy, they looked like bodyguards.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said the pale boy carelessly, noticing where Harry was looking. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigger. Harry wondered if he'd seen any James Bond. Draco Malfoy looked at Ron.

“Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

Ron's ears burned, and Harry's fists clenched. Now  _ this  _ was familiar.

He turned back to Harry. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He held out his hand to shake Harry's, but Harry didn't take it.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are myself, thanks," he said coolly. He wasn't used to being on the receiving end of these sorts of offers. Usually that was Zira, when racist white people would assume he'd agree with them.  _ They  _ tended to say things like "the wrong sort", too. Harry always enjoyed the looks on their faces when Crowley would saunter up and plant a big kiss on Zira's face.

Draco Malfoy didn't go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale cheeks.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

Both Harry and Ron stood up.

"Say that again," Ron said, his face as red as his hair.

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Malfoy sneered.

"Unless you get out now," said Harry, more bravely than he felt, because Crabbe and Goyle were a lot bigger than him or Ron.

"But we don't feel like leaving, do we, boys? We've eaten all our food and you still seem to have some."

Goyle reached toward the last pack of Chocolate Frogs next to Ron — Ron leapt forward, but before he'd so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a horrible yell.

Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk deep into Goyle's knuckle — Crabbe and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung Scabbers round and round, howling, and when Scabbers finally flew off and hit the window, all three of them disappeared at once. Perhaps they thought there were more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps they'd heard footsteps, because a second later, Hermione Granger had come in.

"What  _ has  _ been going on?" she said, looking at their shaken expressions and the rat on the floor.

“I think he's been knocked out," Ron said to Harry, picking up Scabbers by his tail and setting him back in his lap. He looked closer at Scabbers. "No — I don't believe it — he's gone back to sleep."

And so he had.

When Harry had first encountered another bully after moving in with his godparents, he hadn't wanted to bring it up. He didn't want them to feel like they had to do more for him. But Crowley had picked up on it immediately, gently pushing Harry to tell him what had happened at school. Once they found out, Harry had wondered for one wild moment if they were going to kill the bully. Then if they were going to talk to his parents, which was almost as bad. Then Crowley had shaken his head, and said that Harry needed to learn how to solve his problems on his own. Once Zira cooled down, he told Harry all sorts of things, about making friends with the other bullied kids, and acting confident, not giving them the satisfaction of being afraid. Which was kind of funny, considering Zira was the one who'd been most in favor of murdering the kid a few minutes before.

Crowley enrolled Harry in a martial arts class.

By the time Harry was far enough along to be able to stand up for himself, he'd also made friends with the other bullied kids, and it didn't take more than a couple incidents before they were left alone. Harry was fairly confident at this point that if Malfoy tried anything physical, he could probably deal with it. What worried him was the magic. Who knew what sort of spells Malfoy knew?

"You've met Malfoy before?" Ron asked Harry.

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.

"I've heard of his family," said Ron darkly. "They were some of the first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said they'd been bewitched. My dad doesn't believe it. He says Malfoy's father didn't need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side." He turned to Hermione, who was still standing there, arms crossed. "Can we help you with something?"

"You'd best hurry up and put your robes on, I've just been up to the front to ask the conductor, and he says we're nearly there. You haven't been fighting, have you? You'll be in trouble before we even get there!"

"Scabbers has been fighting, not us," said Ron, scowling at her. "Would you mind leaving while we change?"

"All right — I only came in here because people outside are behaving very childishly, racing up and down the corridors," said Hermione in a sniffy voice. "And you've got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you know?"

Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out the window. It was getting dark. He could see mountains and forests under a deep purple sky. The train did seem to be slowing down.   
He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their long black robes. Ron's was a bit short for him, he could see his sneakers underneath them.

A voice echoed through the train: "We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes' time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately."

Harry's stomach lurched with his nerves and Ron, he saw, looked pale under his freckles. They stuffed their wands in their pockets, Ron grabbing Scabbers, and joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out on a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Harry heard a booming voice:

"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" A giant of a man beamed over the sea of heads. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but Harry could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. Harry and Ron scrambled over to him.

The man paused when they reached him. "Harry?" he whispered. His glittering eyes welled up with tears. "Oh, Harry, you look just like your Da, I can't believe it —"

Harry stared awkwardly up at him.

"Right, right, you don't know me yet — sorry 'bout that, it's gotta be tough fer you, everyone actin' like they know all about you when you don't know the first thing 'bout them," he said. "I'm Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds and Hogwarts." He held out an enormous hand and shook Harry's whole arm.  _ Hagrid.  _ The name sounded familiar… "Haven't seen you since you were a wee babe. If you ever need a friend 'round here, I'll be there."

He looked at Ron and beamed. "An' another Weasley, I see. Welcome to Hogwarts!" He turned around, peering above the crowd. "C'mon, follow me — any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now! Firs' years follow me!"

Slipping and stumbling, they followed the giant down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Harry thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once or twice.

"Yeh'll get yer firs' sight o' Hogwarts in a sec," the giant called over his shoulder, "jus' round this bend here."

There was a loud "Oooooh!"

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers. Harry couldn't keep his eyes off it. Somehow, it looked exactly like he had thought a wizard's school would look, but even more marvelous.

“No more'n four to a boat!" the giant called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Ron were followed into their boat by Neville and Hermione.

"Everyone in?" shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. "Right then — FORWARD!"

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Harry lurched forward, not expecting the boat to move on its own, but quickly settled back into his seat. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

“Heads down!" yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

“-riffraff!” Harry gasped out loud as he climbed out of the boat. Ron gave him a funny look. “That’s what Malfoy called Hagrid,” he explained. “I knew his name sounded familiar!” Ron was about to respond when he was interrupted by a booming voice.

"Oy, you there! Is this your toad!" said the giant, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them.

"Trevor!" cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid's lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

"Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?"

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of Year 0. Thank you all so much for sticking with us! We still can't believe quite how much love and support this has gotten <3  
> We're definitely planning to continue this series - Year 1 is already in the works, and we have vague ideas for further stories - but we'll be taking a hiatus for a bit while we make more progress on Year 1. Thanks again!


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